


Known

by Hunter Stu (stunudo)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Dub!Con, F/M, Gunshots, Hell, Hell!Dean, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Stabbing, Torture, Violence, bile, blood as a drug, show level violence and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 86,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunudo/pseuds/Hunter%20Stu
Summary: Hell is a place of torment, a place of pain and despair. A place that had been slowly corroding your soul, until the moment you laid eyes on the Righteous Man and everything changed. Once freed from the confines of your afterlife, you seek out the one person you have any connection to, possessing the first viable vessel you find and riding her in secret.The years have changed him and you are hesitant to play all your cards. Once he accepts the Mark of Cain, he begins to sense you and all you have been hiding within her. And as much as he wants to rise above temptation, he needs your darkness. But will you allow him to lose his light?





	1. From Whence You Came

**Earth Date: May 2007**

**Location: Hell, Pit 37 behind the in-use Torture Dungeons**

The itching was the first thing you remembered, the raw unsettled need to scratch or rub away an unseen irritation. Slowly you became more aware, a rancid breeze assaulted your nose and clogged your throat. As you tried to cough away the obstruction, your flesh seared in protest. The pain was deep and stifling, rods shot through each of your shoulders like featherless wings. The wounds wept blood, but you couldn’t see it, only feel the sticky liquid drenching the rags of your shirt. When the screaming reached you, you remembered. Hell. You were in Hell and your day was only just beginning.

Each morning started with some slight variance, but it began all the same. You would awake along one of the uncountable layers of damned souls threaded on meat hooks or pry-bars, suspended through a vicious spiderweb of chains and catwalks. As the day progressed the heat and therefore the stench would intensify, leaving the sounds and sensations of retching to the forefront of your thoughts. And just when you felt you would pass out from sheer exhaustion, they would take you down and drag you to your next stop.

The damp chambers were as unique as the souls that were placed inside, the implements and décor changing with each revolving door. Since you had been doing this awhile, your personalization had started to fade, a generic arrangement of weapons and potions awaited you as your guard demons strapped you in place. You were too weak to fight and too broken to account for the extra security. The energy coming from your Torturer was redirected rage, you couldn’t help but notice the sizeable lashes along the creature’s back.

Something had happened. The higher ups had insisted on perfect oppression and somehow this demon was among those held responsible. Unluckily for you, he didn’t tire easily. He paced himself, talking through his anger and resentment as if you were a friend. A crippled friend whose mouth was sewn shut, but still a willing participant to his diatribe.

“I wasn’t even there, you know?” He squirted a blast of acid across your inner thighs. “I warned them that Azazel knew about the Gates, what? A thousand years ago now? Did anyone listen?”

He leaned in to stroke the shell of your ear, slowly piercing a talon-sized claw through the tiny canal until all sound disappeared from that side of the room. The blood hemorrhaging down the side of your head in pulsing bursts.

“Now they lost their seal-breaker, well, that aint on me. But, of course, it is! Fucking demons, ya know?!” He looked at you with his three eyes, needle like teeth jutting from his bottom jaw. You nodded emphatically, he didn’t believe you or didn’t care. He walked away, tossing the remaining acid over his shoulder, where the container exploded against your bare chest. The scent of your own burning flesh hit you before your skin began to boil away. Leaving your ribs and sternum exposed for his next trick.

The Torturer spun a meat tenderizer in his hand as a gentle lullaby began to play in the background, warped and fuzzy through your one working ear. You didn’t know why you cried, the song must have been part of your human life, part of your before and a tormenting grief quickly took hold.

**Earth Date: January 10, 2008**

**Location: Twin Falls, Idaho**

She balked as her associates smugly shoved bill rolls into the pockets of their jeans, not bothering counting or organizing the dollars in front of their crestfallen opponents.

“Better luck next time, fellas.” Dean beamed as Sam left another tip in the jar on the bar behind them.

“This is such horseshit!” The brunette slammed her half empty beer bottle down, her voice carrying to the brothers now standing sheepishly beside the pool table. “You know what Tweedle Dean and Tweedle Dumb? You’re on! Unbelievable, I swear-,” the young woman’s voice trailed into a frustrated grumble as she stormed from her seat. Her eyes were down, avoiding the alarmed stares of the other patrons.

“Listen Sammy,” Dean Winchester whispered to his younger brother. “I’m calling dibs.”

Sam chuckled, “Sure, Dean. Good luck with that. She’d eat you alive.” His bright smile was returned by a dreamy look from Dean.

“Dude, I know.”

An annoyed throat clear drew the brothers from their conspiring. “Are we going to play or what?”

“Ladies first,” Dean waved toward the table genteelly, to which she rolled her gray eyes. She approached the tall men, leather clad arms crossed over her chest. Without a word she plucked the cue from Sam’s casual grip and wiggled passed them both, lining up to break. With a deafening crack, she sunk three balls as the rest settled across the green tabletop. Dean whistled lowly, part in shock, part in admiration. Sam just patted him on the back, letting his brother take the whipping all on his own.

Three games and a hundred bucks later, Dean was fumbling for his mojo. He had hunted with Chloe Collins on two previous occasions, but tonight he wanted to tick her name off his bucket list for good. Unfortunately for Dean, CC, as he had come to know her, wasn’t privy to his rapidly approaching demon deal deadline, or else she may have taken pity on the foolish man. Or at least given him (some of) his money back to help pay a call girl for the night.

As one of the few lone female hunters this side of the Rockies, she had resourcefulness and wit on her side. Along with an unfettered bullshit detector. Whenever she told a story her voice would turn in to a low rumble, the volume building with the details of the hunt, Dean couldn’t help but get a little warm along the back of his neck. He was slowly entranced by her and though she had nothing but respect for the Winchesters’ skills, she wasn’t interesting in mixing business with pleasure.

CC spent the night pleasantly robbing the gruff hunter of his winnings while maintaining a friendly, but not flirtations exchange. Despite the effort Dean put forth, she knew better. As a young, single woman in an arguably black-market profession, she knew when to be careful. If she were to sleep with one hunter, before long she’d labeled a whore or a groupie, at best. She didn’t need that kind of tarnish on her reputation, she was a hunter. Full stop. She wasn’t going to rush over to the nearest fleabag motel just to knock some of the tension from the air.

Sam had known the night’s outcome the second CC won the first game. She wasn’t overly competitive, nor was she taunting Dean. So, the not-so-little brother sat back and watched as Dean struck out in every way that night.

**Earth Date: April 2008**

**Location: Hell, Pit 2A**

You woke to the sound of chains. But the air felt different than yesterday or the day before that, or the hundreds of years of days you had existed to suffer thus far. Instead of bile and sewage, there was a distinctive chemical note which laced through your lungs. You had been moved. The flashes of light that came without warning or rhythm showed you a smog infested cavern, the iron from blood and rusted chains punctuated every breath. Before a light brightened to blinding, you saw the sign.

Pit 2

A level

Supervisor: Alastair

Regrettably, you could imagine what an upgrade of this caliber would entail, and the anticipation struck you into a warped paralysis of terror and suspense. A mocking laugh grated on your ears as a demon with six arms disconnected you from the web of souls. It carried you like Linus’ blanket at its side through a tunnel and onto a platform elevator. When the door to the dungeon opened a refined demon in human form greeted you.

He inhaled deeply, eyes closed as if relishing in the pleasure of your meeting. “Ah, yes, the new transfer. The change has started, and we don’t want to lose any of that improvement, now do we?” His voice was nasally, and his mood was more optimistic than you thought necessary, but no one really cared what you thought. He hummed to himself as the six-handed one secured the leather belts over your extremities, when it breathed out you smelled both wet dog and burning paper.

“Hmmmm, let’s see dear, where should we start?” Alastair held up a simple set of foot long railroad spikes. “Looks like I have chosen well, then? Because you smell, horrified.”

**Earth Date: May 15, 2008**

**Location: Hell, Pit 2, Alastair’s private office**

The demon slipped on a perfectly tailored suit jacket and stepped in front of a full-length mirror. He didn’t need a vessel in Hell, but he found it to be equally beneficial to his ego and his victims’ torment that he appeared as professional as possible. Human souls were easily convinced of anything if the messenger wore a face from their species. He had barely finished with the last potential convert of the day when the arrival bell tolled. This was the one he had been waiting for, a special delivery, like Christmas, but with more screaming. He didn’t let the deal victim see him, no he would let his proteges work him over for a year or two first. Alastair stood back and watched from above as the man helplessly called out for his brother into the vacuum that was his pit. A sickening sneer pursed the demon’s features, it was quite the gift after all.

After nearly ten years at the hands of Alastair, you started to feel the darkness. Things that had been once taboo or gut-wrenching suddenly made you burst into hysterics. The feel of your flesh repairing from a days’ worth of dissections brought a pleasant glow to your skin. Your mind wondered into bloody pageantry and racial slurs. Your existence was slipping into the unknown and you didn’t know if you could or should try to stop it. After every session Alastair hummed in satisfaction, taking note of any change in your color or form like a child charting a sapling, devotedly mapping your progress.

Then one day, he had lengthened your appointment. Instead of having one or two of his cronies take you back to your chains, Alastair rolled you into the hall. It was quiet at first, the dankness didn’t reach his quarters and it was an odd reprieve, for which you wouldn’t complain. Just as you felt your organs starting to regrow, you overheard the soul after you. His next appointment was with a freshly damned man with a deep voice and endless supply of comebacks. It wasn’t until he began to whimper, that you realized you were meant to hear their session. His cries were unbearable, despite your body have righted itself there was a gaping whole in your chest. Whoever this poor soul was, you shared his anguish.

Unsurprisingly, Alastair delighted in an audience, making it a routine for him to wheel you outside to bear witness, while also using your presence to mock his latest victim. The man, called Dean, was stubborn, his backtalk earned him much more than a fresh soul usually saw, or what you could remember from your early years of afterlife. Alastair used the same sing-song voice he gave you, but there was an eagerness, you had never received from him. It was almost like the demon allowed you to listen to make you jealous.

And part of you was, of both the attention Alastair showed the insubordinate man and the passion the man still carried. Even when Dean was open and in pieces, he rarely showed weakness. But the thing that drove you nearly insane, day after day, was the offer. Alastair gave him the choice to torture for him instead of being tortured by him and every day, Dean refused. You didn’t know what happened after Dean’s session, if he was wheeled to your place to listen to the next pathetic sod or if that was a personally designed punishment for you. Either way, his daily choice loomed in your thoughts.

One day, you finally broke, volunteering to take Alastair’s offer, an offer he had and would never extend to you. His white eyes gleamed in amusement as you begged, he shushed you just before he cut out your tongue. You had long lost the stitches over your mouth, allowing you to routinely spit in his face. But now, he simply prepared for it, leaving you again without any feeling of power or satisfaction.

“You are coming along nicely, though, despite your audacity. I suspect we will have you ready to flail an army come next century. You really are quite an opus, if I do say so myself.”

**Earth Date: July 30, 2008**

**Location: Hell, Pit 2A**

The burning rash had crept over you in the night, every inch of your skin calling out to be extinguished. Then the spiders made their way down the chains, metal mandibles and acid venom picking victims at random, eyes prismatically hypnotizing before sinking their teeth in. You were naked, the shame and mockery pelted you from unplaceable voices. You wondered if it was fortuitous or if it was some random occurrence you had forgotten about. Time no longer held meaning and what memories remained were only of disfigurement and defeat. You awaited your transport detail with bated breath. They were late today, while something about their expressions screamed change, either between them or with the boss. It added to the general foreboding that had settled in your gut. There was never a good day to be in Hell, but this was proving to be one of your worst.

After your body was secured to the metal table, your Torturer entered. It wasn’t Alastair, though this one too, wore a human face. He was young and white with a solid build. He didn’t speak, he just huffed a lot to himself as he paced along the racks of implements. The anticipation jostling your thoughts, unsure if this was his first time or he was seasoned enough to use your self-destructive wits as his first weapon. The man finally turned and looked at you, eyes hidden in shadow and as he stepped closer, there was almost an uncertainty that slipped over his lips. He started in on you all the same, with a long-curved blade over your stomach. The knife was so sharp you hadn’t felt a thing until the air stung your damaged flesh. Somewhere in the bowels of Hell something opened, with a deafening grumble it shook you, the man, and the entire unit floor, from the ground up.

Hours later, after you had pleaded and screamed, bled and vomited, did you first hear him speak. “Alastair! This one is done.”

The voice was unmistakable. Dean had taken their offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dates I have included are for reference to air dates from the show. I have tried not to regurgitate what you already know from the show and trust you can follow along as this is a canon parallel series. xoxo Stu


	2. Hell and Other Delusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Reader faces her torturer and feels herself change. Chloe Collins runs into an unexpected driver outside the Impala. Castiel makes his first appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With respect to my readers’ devotion to the show and its story lines, I have included dates relevant to air dates for reference points. I try not to repeat information you already know, but please ask if something doesn’t make sense! xoxo Stu
> 
> Warnings: Torture, captivity, demons, smells, pain, blood, bile, possession, hinted potential sexual assault, Slow Burn. Each chapter will have its own warnings, because I am generous like that.

**Earth Date: August 16, 2008**

**Location: Hell, Alastair’s Quarters**

“Does it have to smell all the time?” Dean growled as he sucked in a deep breath of the slightly less offensive office air.

“Well, it’s Hell, you see. If we made it aromatic, that would be poor marketing. Wouldn’t you agree Mr. Winchester?” Alastair didn’t look up from his notes, until the last syllable, brows lifted and face unimpressed.

“Your point? Over-promising and under-delivering would be worth it.” Dean muttered, mindlessly playing with the trinkets on one of Alastair’s clinically organized shelves. The Higher Demon sighed and tossed Dean across the room with a flick of his wrist.

“Don’t touch things that aren’t yours, Dean. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?” Alastair stood and approached the paralyzed soul of his new apprentice. “Oops, I mean that petulant rage-o-holic father and that charcoaled corpse of a mother teach you any manners?”

Dean grunted against the strain of the demon’s strength, his voice stuck in his throat. Alastair glared back, allowing his true eyes to glow with power until Dean stopped struggling.

“You have patients waiting, Dean. Why don’t you scurry along to your post,” Alastair straightened the young man’s collar before patting him on the back, “Wipe that snarl off your face while you’re at it.”  
***

Now that you knew it was him, the soul you had envied and empathized with over years of torture, you couldn’t help but take in his appearance in complex detail. The way his eyes shifted in the harsh light, gold giving way to moss covered teak. His teeth were impossibly straight, though you rarely saw them as Dean stood impassive above you. Light brown hair unchanging from the moment of his death. It was a solid year before you used his name, casually greeting him as he entered. His shoulders hunched, but his face bordered on endearment when he spun to face you.

The softness in his lips and the lines around his eyes were too sacred for this refuse pile. He was easier on the eyes than Alastair, though it hurt to look at Dean like that, even with his faux sincerity, it fluttered long forgotten feelings within you. He didn’t reply but cleared his throat and continued to sort through his tools. There was a crack that broke open in the back recesses of your logic that day, and something like a permeating gas sank through.

***

You weren’t the only victim who felt the grips of Dean’s rack, never the only one to feel his wrath. You couldn’t keep count of the other souls that filled the expanses of the chain webs, nor the dozens waiting in line for the first-class treatment that Alastair’s minions were renowned for. There was no point, with communication restricted and connection only giving the guards more things to use against you. You began to feel transparent once more, another one of the huddling masses from your former pit. Even among the most vindictive of captors, you were one of many that were carted to their dens, day in and day out.

Until that moment each day when Dean locked eyes on you and you felt all that delicious concentration for as long as you could stand him. Dean had learned over his years behind the blade, observed your tells and triggers, and used them to his every advantage. The choking moans and strangled cries each giving him more ammunition for his arsenal. You fed on the shadows in his eyes, the way they moved and lingered with every whimper that passed your lips.

Dean had started to crave the job as you longed for him to hurt you, to see the glint of his teeth as he grinned at your misery. The warping of your form was imperceptible to his untrained eye, but Alastair sensed its progress from his observation platform. He was nearly as pleased with his student as he was with himself.

**Earth Date: September 2, 2008**

**Location: Bonaventure Cemetery (Outside Savannah, GA)**

Chloe Collins cursed her choice in jobs as the clinging, swampy air soaked through her top while she filled the grave. Although the salt-and-burn was ordinary enough, the drive across country had left her restless rather than exhausted. She packed up her supplies in near silence and quickly wheeled onto the Interstate, with no discernible destination.

The weight of the humidity dampened her hair while leaving a sheen to her naturally tanned skin, she tried to ignore the less than subtle once over from the motel desk clerk. As if she could be anymore physically uncomfortable in that moment. She took the old metal key ring and gave him a toothless smile. The shower pressure did little to relieve the tension from her scarred shoulders, but CC used every drop of lukewarm water to wash away the sweat and filth of the last hunt.

**Adabelle, GA**

Ruby dragged her bag from the backseat of the Impala, sighing at the cliché décor of the patriotic motel. Loyalty to something as fleeting as political structures seemed a waste of initiative, if not all together disappointing to the demon encased in the trim brunette brain-dead woman. She followed the surly hunter she had latched onto into their shared room, curious to see what he possibly had planned for them in this corner of the Bible Belt.

Unfortunately for her, research involving the surrounding haunted sites was Sam Winchester’s primary agenda. Ruby dragged her feet, grabbing food and drinks while casually messing with the local teenagers loitering at the superstore. She smirked at the gawking boys complimenting her ‘cool contacts’ before stumbling out of the way. When she pulled into the motel’s parking lot a voice caught her attention.

“Hey Winchesters, you’re a little late for the case,” a curvy woman called across the parking lot at the Impala, Ruby noticed how the female hunter recoiled at the sight of her crawling out of the driver’s seat. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were somebody else.”

Ruby calculated the risk of confirming the woman’s assumption before she smiled politely. “It’s no problem, the car is kind of a giveaway there’s a Winchester within earshot.” Ruby shifted the bags into one hand, offering to shake hers. “I’m Ruby, Sam’s inside if you want to set him straight.”

“CC, thanks. What about Tweedle Dean?” Damn the innate skepticism, Ruby thought, but her face fell enough to cause the stranger real concern.

“I think you should talk to Sam about that,” Ruby nodded toward the grimy red door.

**Earth Date: September 18, 2008**

**Location: Hell, Pit 2A**

It was a cold day in Hell, which was not as uncommon as the phrase would have mortals believe. The biting chill snaked up the chains causing them to moan and freeze beneath the deadly forming icicles. And unlike your living experience, numbness and shock never saved your body from the burn of subzero temperatures. The imaginary needles struck every nerve against the unsuccessful shivering caused by the day’s environmental torture. Dean sat beside your restraining table as you were dragged in for your session.

His eyes rolled over your puckered flesh and frigid lips deciding how to proceed with such a canvas. You felt more exposed than you had in front of him, even more than on the days you were bare naked. His look broke you open, a freshly burst vein of emotion. It felt as if he was listening to your inner most secrets and finding them comically childish. You inhaled against the protest of your ice-lined lungs, ignoring the grubby paws of the demons locking you in place.

Dean circled the end housing your feet, cautious and calculating. He dragged his calloused palm over the crook of your ankle and the plane of your shin, instinctively you shied from the contact. Your toes clenched, and your legs fought against the restraints. As his hand slid over your knee, your mind began to spiral. Dean hadn’t slid into that sort of depravity, even after years yielding the position. You don’t think granting him that pleasure would bring you the sort of twisted satisfaction your periled screams had.

You didn’t notice the screams that broke off in the distance. Nor did you see the reflection of the implement in his free hand. All you could focus on was the weight of his hand on your thigh and the heat of his gaze. You pleaded against the muzzle, the leather and metal stifling your cries. Then the door exploded behind Dean in a shower of blinding light which flooded through the door way, inside out, from a dazzling human-shaped figure. The brass knuckles fell from Dean’s right hand as he gaped at the intruder. As soon as you saw it, your face grew hot, the layers of skin and hair melting away in the heavenly presence. Before you lost your vision, you caught the being’s shining arms grab for Dean.

In the darkness before your remaining brain deteriorated, the truth of what happened came to you on the wind. A victorious overture resonating the liberation of your captive captor. There were tunnels and passages, hidden doors among the rows of barracks which lead through the massive and complex layers of Hell. And while the security around the gates in Wyoming had been tripled and constantly tested since the mass break out that cost them countless souls and certain high-profile demons. Even the ways of Crossroad Demons were limited and utilized by those only deigned fit for teleportation privileges. In short, there was no way it should have happened. No being of darkness knew of the portal or the subsequent means that were taken to secure the extraction. And yet, the Angel Castiel entered the unfathomable depths of the abyss and raised Dean Winchester from perdition.

You awoke to the demanding voices of angry demons all around you. Your eyes had regenerated, which were soon followed by your tongue and lips. As soon as sounds could be formed you howled at your audience, the sheer terror from what you had witnessed, and the uncertainty of Dean’s fate culminating in a wail. The words came eventually, after a swift slap from a childlike demon you had never seen before. The combined rage from the loss of their Righteous Man rumbled the walls, and just as you had recovered, you were atomized once more.

The next morning the shift settled in your essence. You were no longer all soul, somehow a sliver of grey had wedged itself into your being; cracking you wide open.

**Earth Date: November 2, 2008**

**Location: Hell, Alastair’s Quarters**

The news was growing concerning, Heaven sinking to their level for an upper hand in a war they hadn’t earned. Hell’s agenda was clear, concise. Those winged light beams were painting targets on their own kind while leaving humanity to rot. Alastair read the messages that littered his inbox, rolling his eyes at the mess. He needed a release, he needed to feel the unparalleled bliss of flailing a soul within an inch of existence. He stood and walked out of the once-meticulous space. He wandered the halls between the various chambers of anguish, listening to the screams, waiting for the perfect call. He had lost his most promising protege, but there would be others. There already were many vying for the favor of the Master of Torture, but none had the passion Alastair expected.

He had a new crop of souls coming up from the lower levels due in any day. Yet, not enough had been turned since the momentum had nearly halted with the incident. It was then, when Alastair worried about the progress and purpose of his students that he heard her. She was like a phoenix, rising from the ashes. Her cruel retorts caused her guard to muzzle her before getting to her appointment. She giggled at the demon’s irritation, humming to herself beneath the strip of tanned hide. All was not lost.

It was a cancer, but like any transformation, the need for change only accelerated the process. Before long the lumps of logic, longing and empathy dwindled until they became cumbersome. The grey matter that had been pierced through you, had enveloped your remaining light. Alastair had taken it upon himself to continue with your daily sessions, stoking the fire of damnation that the loss of Dean and vision of a Heavenly Host had kindled within your soul-psyche. He hadn’t loss any steps during Dean’s tenure.

Alastair carved into you like a miner drove through ore, searching, prying and chipping away at any and all valuables. He hummed when your eyes buzzed in your sockets, the onyx slowly flooding the Scleral tissue. His nasally voice recited all the changes you had undergone, and the awestruck anticipation of what your end results would be. Horns or a tail? Perhaps both. His list of your possible outcomes was as detailed as a spoiled child’s demands to a department store Santa.

Alastair was your gift wrapper and receiver, all in one.

But, like so many people in your human life, he left before he could see the scars, he had left upon you. Before you had blossomed into his reviled creation, Alastair returned to Earth in search of Dean and a girl who could hear Angels. The War for the Seals had escalated, and he was needed in the frays of battle. You took it extremely personally, futilely clinging to the scraps of humanity that remained in tiny pockets of your soul. Telling yourself that he would come back to finish his and Dean’s work. That if you remained microscopically human; your demonization would not complete. That they would be back to finish their job.

That you were not alone.

It was during one of your internal rants while hanging by your ankles below one of the chattering mechanical spiders that you realized Alastair’s last crescendo to your symphony. The feeling of loss and regret you had been wearing since the angel had melted your face was a wound akin to heartbreak. Love. They had given you your greatest torture to date: an unusable devotion to the once more mortal hunter Dean Winchester.

There were (and continue to be) innumerable ways to torture the human soul, emotionally, spiritually, physically. But that knowledge wouldn’t remedy this transgression, couldn’t right or lessen its burden. This unfulfilled longing was the purest form of torture. This blasphemy, this raw human ache was more than your warped being could endure. The frustration, of it stewing alongside the deepening darkness within you, shot through your very existence, burning, churning and scrambling you into something new. Something broken, yet focused. In time, you became fully demonic, raw and unfettered, but not without purpose.


	3. Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With respect to my readers’ devotion to the show and its story lines, I have included dates relevant to air dates for reference points. I try not to repeat information you already know, but please ask if something doesn’t make sense! xoxo Stu
> 
> Warnings: Physical and Emotional Torture, captivity, blood, demons, Hell, Leviathans, show level violence, Slow Burn. More warnings to come. Each chapter will have its own warnings.

**Earth Date: November 7, 2011**

**Location: Rock Port, Missouri**

There were things she had seen that could make a military general shit his tighty whities, but never had Chloe Collins seen the unparalleled shift from one being into another. Werewolves, Skin-Walkers and Shifters, none phased that seamlessly. The man took one look at Reynolds, a burly backroad hunter, and instantly took him down with a sleeper hold. And then he WAS Reynolds: voice, gait, everything a complete replica.

“Ah, come on CC, you know he’d been dying for a taste,” the thing looked down at her partner on the case and stepped pointedly on to his neck. “I guess he died for me to have a taste.” Her stomach lurched as it approached her.

Things started falling into place in the panicked walls of her mind. The weird economic booms, the smarmy politicians and their inspirational press conferences. The fact that civilians kept getting dumber by the day. These things were behind it, she wasn’t sure how or why, but there were too many coincidences to ignore it now. Chloe braced herself to square off with an attacker that had half of a foot and fifty pounds on her.

‘Another fucking Apocalypse’, she internally cursed. The unnamed beast reeled back, and its neck opened to reveal rows of teeth and a putrid tongue. Chloe stabbed with all her strength, her signature ceremonial dagger sank into its chest. It swung back, unaffected by the wound. She jumped back, trying to shake off the blow to her head, the one-of-a-kind weapon lodged in the beast’s torso. As she grabbed for the pistol in the waistband of her jeans, deep voices called for her to duck. Surprisingly, she listened, leaving the vision of Sam Winchester a clear shot to douse her attacker with a healthy cascade of industrial cleaner before Dean removed its head.

She had died, this was it. She died with the idiotic hope of a rescue; her memories threw some unexpected pair to her thoughts as her brain started to short circuit. CC closed her eyes and smirked at the way phantom-memory Dean’s lips had curled as he sliced through that black-oozing-shifter with a solid machete stroke. ‘Yeah, at least I wasn’t the only one who went down swinging,’ CC thought as she fell unconscious.

***

The familiar weight of an old quilt pinned her to the bed. A musty pillow case cooled her cheek as she rolled over, ignoring the world around her until the last moments of her consciousness slammed into focus. Chloe sat up, scrambling for her dagger and her gun. They were waiting for her, cleaned and within arm’s reach on the nightstand. The worn wooden floor led to a large open cabin where her rescuers were casually watching soap operas. It was all too neat and so glaringly wrong at the same time.

The super-shifters had been throwing the Winchesters under the bus for the most public and absurd crimes. They wouldn’t keep her alive, unless they needed her. She tried to justify their use of dead hunters’ faces for their vendetta, but it only resumed the throbbing in her skull. She fell back on the bed, the old mattress bouncing enough to draw the well-trained ears of the man-shaped beasts across the room. She had her weapons in her hands and perched on her knees as Sam stood to approach her.

He raised his massive hands in surrender, “CC, hey, it’s okay. It’s us.”

“Sure, it’s you,” she snarled. “Weird place for a couple of mass murders to be hiding out. Whose place is this? Why are you wearing my friends?”

“Chloe,” Dean’s deep voice caused her to blink, his hands mirrored Sam’s. The concern and honesty defying her fighter’s instincts. “Come on, sweetheart. We’re not Leviathan. Those sonofabitches are really bad for business,” his voice trailed off to Sam, who only shrugged.

Dean stepped closer and she cocked the hammer. “Why would we gift wrap your weapons if we were monsters?”

“Obviously they don’t do much to you, but all I need is to slow you down.” She threw her knife square at Sam’s chest, he barely spun in time, as Dean charged her gun hand. He shoved her hand up. CC got one shot off through the ceiling before Dean fell hard against her atop the bed, wrenching her arm back forcing her to finally drop the weapon.

“It’s us, CC, I swear. Let us show you, please?” Dean’s voice was tired, the last word said on a whisper. Sam stood back, playing with her knife between his long fingers, admiring the runes. His brow was pinched and his chin out, not sure what to say to make her see them in a better light. She nodded, frustration and confusion winning over their insistence.

The man rolled off her, letting her hold her weapon as they talked. Her eyes kept moving, checking the windows and furniture for quick escapes. Something she couldn’t shake was how he even smelled like Dean. They dosed themselves with her Holy Water, salted each other and even cut themselves with both the silver and iron edges of her treasured blade. Their final test was new, they assured her that it was for them, the Leviathan, and nothing happened once Sam and then Dean sprinkled a type of detergent over their opposite hands.

“Okay?” Sam offered, his big puppy dog eyes waiting for her to process it all. She shrugged, holding her gun over the pillow clutched to her chest.

“To answer your question, this was one of Rufus’ safehouses. Bobby brought us here once and when we had to go deep cover–” Dean leaned with his elbows on his knees, trying to remember the last time he had seen her. The past few years had been such a whirlwind, he had barely kept his head up for air.

“Wait, Chloe, let’s say we’re not Sam and Dean, or at least the Sam and Dean you know—”

“Sammy?” Dean’s groaned, rubbing his eyebrows.

“No, Dean, listen. Chloe, why is it so hard for you to believe us?”

She looked at Sam through squinted eyes, his soft tone just like the one he would use on victims’ families. Wary, yet not as distrustful as the first few minutes of their conversation, “because the Sam and Dean I know, are dead. They died stopping Lucifer and the Angels from frying the planet.”

That got their attention, Dean and Sam shared a look, Sam’s eyes brightening with the turn of events.

“Who told you that?” Dean’s voice was brass, obvious with disbelief.

“Bobby Singer.” Chloe spat, her head rolling a little with her certainty. Dean laughed, while Sam paused, but thought it out. She continued, “he said Sam had taken Michael and the Devil to hell himself and Dean—”

“And Dean what?” Sam drew a chair from the breakfast table and sat backwards on it, listening intently.

“was gone,” she finished on a rattled breath.

The brothers shared another look, while the woman stared at them, really and truly taking them in. They had aged, Sam was leaner, Dean’s eyes more lined. Monsters would have taken them as they were, not able to replicate something as unique and unpredictable as human mortality. “Well, it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, sweetheart.”

“I was in Hell, but got brought back,” Sam started, letting it sink in.

“And I left hunting, or tried to, had a bit of a domestic hiatus, you could say.” Dean shrugged, the softness of his smile warming the thick block of ice that had settled in her stomach.

“But, why didn’t Bobby tell me?” Chloe countered, trying to out logic their explanations.

“Bobby kind of has a soft spot for us, I think he wanted Dean to have a normal life and, well, I spent a year without a soul. He was protecting his own.” Sam offered, an apologetic grimace on his face.

“Yeah, let’s just be grateful you didn’t meet that Sam. Him, you wouldn’t have believed.” Dean muttered, getting up with a soft pat on CC’s knee. He went to the fridge for a beer.

“Dude!” Sam chastised him. “What is it 10 a.m.?”

“You want one?” Dean offered to Chloe, ignoring his brother’s judgement.

“Got anything stronger?”

“You know it.”

**Earth Date: January 13, 2012**

**Location: Hell, A Never-Ending Hallway**

This was worse because it was all an illusion. There was no end in sight, just enough progress to keep that minuscule drop of hope alive. You had to hand it to the king, this was a much more effective and hands-free form of torture. You patrolled the corridor, eyeing the prisoners, souls in every hue and stage of damnation. Your scaled flesh caused many to shudder as you approached; showing your true form was cathartic now. The years as one of the tortured long behind you as you suffered alongside the helpless masses as one of the enforcers.

It was still Hell, but it had grown on you.

**Earth Date: August 20, 2012**

**Location: Odell, Oregon**

The call rang on until the clipped voicemail message greeted Chloe, again. She angrily ended the call, biting back the curses at the stubborn man. If the phone had been ditched, it would have gone to voicemail instantly, or to an outdated disconnected message. No, Sam had kept his phone charged and on, he was just choosing to ignore her calls. They had never been close, but his blatant disregard ruffled her sense of mutual respect held amongst hunters. He needed a good head smack. Among other things.

What would Dean say about his little brother’s lack of manners? God only knows, Chloe thought as the familiar clutch of grief writhed within her chest.

**Earth Date: February 25, 2013**

**Location: Lebanon, Kansas**

“No.”

“Please? Just close your eyes, it’s a surprise.” Dean’s eyes widened, looking like a hopeful third-grader instead of a middle-aged scruff covered hunter. Chloe crossed her arms and shook her head. “Just turn off the huntress-ness, for like three seconds. Help a guy out here?”

“You’re not as cute as you think you are,” she muttered, closing her eyes dramatically as Dean rushed to slip the ornate key into the large metal door. She held out her hand and cleared her throat, expectantly. Sam chuckled beside her and she elbowed him. A warm calloused hand took hers, while the other gathered her at the small of her back.

“Alright, CC, welcome to our new place,” Dean, both proud and excited. She gaped, her mouth open in genuine shock. She looked at Sam, who seemed sick as a dog and then back to Dean who was grinning like a fool. Sam just shook his head, his hair fluttering as the door closed behind him.

“Ready for that tour?”

“Why are you even on this side of the country?” Sam asked as they waited for Dean to bring out their plates. He had insisted on playing host, another surprise for Chloe or just general hospitality from a man who had never had a permanent home? It was quite the coin toss.

“Honestly?” Chloe sighed, resting her feet on the chair next to her at the library table. “A cryptic message from Garth and boredom. Been trying to stay off the ol’ Angel radar, because, no thanks.”

Sam nodded, holding up his hands half in a shrug, half in dismay, “Yeah, tell me about it. Unfortunately, we don’t have that sort of luck.”

“Or good sense,” she added, giving Sam her questioning eyebrow.

“Fair enough. But, uh, you look good, everything going okay otherwise?” Sam cleared his throat, changing the subject from the Winchesters’ poor life choices. Chloe let it slide, ignoring the compliment and sidestep with a generous swig of her beer. She nodded, but before she could reply an exuberant Dean burst from the kitchen with two plates overflowing with homemade potato wedges and bacon cheeseburgers.

“Oh, he cooks too? I’ll take three, please,” she cooed underneath her breath, knowing full well Sam heard her. They ate quickly with large gulps surrounded by appreciative groans. The burgers were mouthwatering, and the fries seasoned to perfection. As Chloe played with the last of the ketchup on her plate, the boys debated their next move. Lots of big talk about Gates of Hell and Trials, she got the distinct impression that Dean was not so pleased with Sam bearing the brunt of the upcoming uncertainty. The Winchesters had always been on a higher echelon of hunters than CC or even most she had ever worked with. But this was big, after everything they had already done, she wondered if their mission had become another crusade. Perhaps that drive is what made them great, perhaps it is what cost them a majority of their friends and all of their family.

It was most definitely the thing that drew her to them since they saved her from that Leviathan. And it was the second most terrifying thing about them that left her questioning her sanity.

**Earth Date: March 30, 2013 (Just before the episode Taxi Driver)**

**Location: Hell, Outside Bobby Singer’s cell**

“You’re certain?” You asked the guard in a demonic dialect before peeking through the decorative metal inlay of the unlocked door, having grown over the years, your height allowed you easy access to loom around the bend.

“Everyday. They send someone in with a glamor to confuse the old coot. It’s always one of two brothers. Sam Winchester,” the growl in her voice broke off into a purr. There was still much trepidation over the true vessel of Lucifer, even demons had their kinks. “Or Dean.”

A name that had been barely a rumor over the last centuries, especially the years since the fall of Lucifer’s acolytes Azazel and Lilith and the rise of Crowley. Yet a name you would never forget. The king was a known consort of all manner of beings, from heaven to the scum of humanity. But to have a version of Dean Winchester in Hell where you could see him again? The prospect was overwhelming, even if it was a torment-intended simulation. You hurried back down the row of high priority souls, prisoners that had been won or stolen from Heaven. Souls that had done the most damage to the armies of Hell during their living years. Their pain resonated through the stone walls, sickly sweet.

Over the following months you left your patrols earlier and earlier, escaping to the dungeon that housed the humanly mentor of the man that had irreparably changed you. And each day you watched the various exchanges, smooth and cavalier Dean attempting to rescue Bobby Singer, desperate demonic Dean thirsty to spill the old man’s blood or broken and sobbing Dean begging Bobby to end him. If you weren’t so biased, the Sam illusions would have been equally as moving, Demon-blood strengthened Sam claiming he had found his true family, a preteen Sam begging Bobby to teach him how to shoot only to have his eyes darken and turn on his teacher or a Red-Eyed Sam, a poor rendition of Lucifer, but effective against the soft insides of their paternal figure.

You learned much in your time watching the torture of Robert Singer. He was an impressive soul, even after decades of torture he routinely told the imposters to stick it where the sun didn’t shine. Like any parent, he had a favorite, no matter how he tried to hide it. He preferred Dean, but that was because he saw his own emotional vulnerability in the young hunter. Sam was more like John, with whom Bobby routinely butted heads. His love ran deep, no matter who was favored or understood best. Which was why it was so easy to maintain the doubleganger inflicted agony. And your misery loved their company.

One evening, having missed a turn due to overly flustered messenger demons, you were later than normal to escape your duties and relish in the vision of Dean. The King was not pleased and therefore everyone worked to keep their heads down, patrols were increased, any charge was overly-minded. When you rounded the corner, one of the Sam Winchester doubles was barking at the soul of Bobby Singer and another was screaming that the other was not real. Well this was a twist, but then you saw them, bodies of your fallen brethren zapped from their human meat suits. It was the real Sam Winchester, as you watched the hunter and the old man run away, you stood frozen. There was no way to salvage this without going toe-to-toe with Lucifer’s vessel who was also the only being Dean would do anything for. You let them go, hiding in the shadows, knowing there was something brewing above.

With the loss of your daily reminder of him from Bobby’s enforcers, your hunger for Dean only intensified.


	4. Topside Turvy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Torture, captivity, demons, Possession, necromancy, corpse disposal/ desecration, murder, eating raw beef, autopsies, animal death, angel kills, show level violence, Slow Burn. More warnings to come. Each Chapter will have its own warnings, because I am generous like that.

**Earth Date: April 18, 2013**

**Location: Hell, and its Earth-level operations**

The king knew the Winchesters were interfering with his domain; all too soon his rage reverberated throughout every corner of Hell. Your pacifism had somehow gone unseen, leaving you to ponder their motivations in silence as you focused your energy to quell your panic over betraying the crown. Crowley worked in secret with the kidnapped prophet under the strictest of security. Today the rumors started: he decided to use a new angle to break the petulant former honor student. The king of Hell was holding a casting call. Any demon who thought they had the chops to portray the Winchesters well enough to coax information out of the paranoid prophet. ‘Potential side parts available, real talent only apply.’

Curiosity got the best of you, after a few hours you tracked down the where and when. Upon breaching the portal to Earth, you had to recite your resume and why you thought yourself qualified to audition for the challenge.

“I was tortured by Dean Winchester.” You said it plainly, as if it was a long-forgotten past, and not a constant pining at the base of your every thought.

“When were you on Earth last?” the first gatekeeper asked, unimpressed.

“He tortured me here, before my, evolution,” You used your hands, hoping your point got across. When his dead eyes blinked back, you added. “Under Alistair’s tutelage?”

“Line B,” he nodded behind him. “Follow the stairs to the vessels. The boss wants us all in meat suits for the glamor to work.”

As you found the appropriate entry gate, you shuffled along the slight incline of the dusty floor. You had yet to find anyone ahead of you in your assigned queue. As the despair began to dissipate, you knew you had left the true confines of Hell behind. The magical bindings along the fences kept you weak, unable to flee and the atmosphere slowly softened your membrane sublimating you into a shapeless cloud. The Den of Bodies reeked of fresh death, human forms deposited like unwanted toys, empty from either recent possession or the tinny aftertaste of necromancy.

You soon found a male form close to Dean’s height and followed the cramped line illuminated with an icy blue letter “B”. Slowly you adjusted to the feel and weight of the vessel, it was hollow and odiferous in a way a corpse could only be. Walking came quickly and as you rounded the next bend you eventually found the demon ahead of you in the line, which thrice wrapped around a broad chamber. Within the darkened space more servants in human skin were transforming the old warehouse into a mirage of a crumby tugboat in a forgotten American freshwater harbor. Suddenly a fresh panic overtook you. Besides the very slim possibility of being transfigured into the man that was the focus of your emotions for centuries, what were you doing here?

In the end, you improvised. You didn’t make it passed the first round of auditions, didn’t even get a chance to perform for the king himself. But that didn’t stop you from observing the surveillance goons’ schedules and precisely orchestrated operation during the days you waited in line. On a whim, after your second rejection, you hung back and hid in the Wardrobe Department like a forgotten costume change. It was the quietest space you had occupied in decades, content to wait out the auditions like a rat waiting for the carnival to close.

And what a closing night; first they sent the last of the surviving actors back downstairs. All but one of the staggered portals sealed and secured by patrols. Since the Wardrobe Den was on this side of the portals, but out of the way of their duties, it was the last thing searched. So, when you heard voices whimpering about clean up detail; you got creative. Standing you dragged a body by its feet to the top of the heap.

“Wait, I thought we were on body dispersal?” A confused elderly Asian suited demon complained.

“I got sent from deliveries, figured we would take a handful so as not to draw attention once we are done with the project,” You shrugged, grabbing another body to stack.

“Whatever, man, let’s just fry the ones we need to before the boss comes back?” The first demon’s lanky partner bought your story, helping you even out the third body on your pile. You swung around, pulling the collected stack of bodies back the way they came, hoping to find a true Exit to the outside world. There was a goddamn sign, green like toxic ooze, lighting your way. The slow trudge of dragging bodies alleviated as you found an old dolly on the wings of a loading dock.

“What are you doing?” A demon with a security uniform on asked as you plopped the last lifeless corpse on to the metal cart.

“Hiding bodies, what does it look like I’m doing?” You sighed, breathing in the outside air for the first time in a century, so close to freedom you could taste it. An unraveling sense of possibility exploded among your thoughts.

“Okay, on your way, grab some Pad Thai? The golden boy in there is getting pretty obscure with his food requests. We got another truck handling the rest of the laundry list.” He handed you a scrawled-on shred of paper. You took the assignment in slight disbelief as a dubious grin broke onto your vessel’s face. Could demons get any stupider?

**Earth date: April 21, 2013**

**Location: Janesville, CA**

It was oddly damp and cool, but out in the open the afternoon sun gave off such warm you would have stayed out until sunset. The dead man you had been wearing since Hell had caused some trouble and you were in the market for a new ensemble as you strolled down the gravel drive toward the ramshackle homestead, just enjoying the spring day. The bull had sensed you coming, an agonizing moan tore through its massive throat before it sunk to the ground. Its fear was the dinner bell, you quickly hopped the pasture fence to play with the anguished creature.

A shotgun blast shot out in warning behind you, the old farmer calling out as he approached, “Get back now!”

The beast’s blood had soaked the dirt beneath your knees, your hands and face caked with the sticky liquid. The knowledge that this was its true death and that it had happened at your hands flowed through you, an unbridled power. The muffled shriek that came from the man’s mouth as you spun to face him was icing on the cake. You quickly approached him, the urine snaked down his jeans and on to his shaking legs. He couldn’t form words before his heart gave out with your tendon-riddled smile. You left him for his Reaper and marched to his backdoor.

“Was that really necessary Harold!” The old woman bellowed from the next room. “I swear I need to hide that gun, with your eye sight,” her voice trailed off as she looked up to see all the blood-soaked six feet of your vessel in the door way. She crossed herself, before you smoked out of the mess and into her praying throat. Hopefully, you had caused enough mayhem for those pesky little hunters to start poking their noses around.

You cleared her throat and went for the phone, dialing the emergency line. “Yes? Hello? Oh god, this man attacked Simon, and now I think Harold’s had a heart attack. Please, send help—” You waited on the line, frantically trying to give the dispatcher the details. Before the sirens were on the horizon, you walked your old vessel back out to the pasture and planted two solid blasts to the body. Your short stay in the old woman had given her quite the headache and she quickly passed out beside the telephone. You jumped into Harold before he was loaded into the back of the ambulance and taken to the county coroner.

**Earth date: April 23, 2013 (Just before Pac Man Fever)**

**Location: Lassen County Government Office, Susanville, CA**

Chloe Collins tightened the belt of her trench coat, realizing it would be too warm to use soon. Her etched blade rested carefully on her belt, hidden yet accessible in its personalized leather sheath. She checked her watch before taking another sip of her gas station coffee-hodge-podge of regular Colombian roast cut with their water and powder cappuccino concentrate. She was waiting on Roger or Geoff, not sure who would draw the short straw, and therefore would have to put forth some effort in the appearance department. While the other got lucky and was due to be scoping out the cleared crime scene. She hadn’t slept in two days when the omens came up on the radar. She had gotten into town early the night before, allowing her some rest before back-up or county offices were ready for her.

She was giving Geoff/ Roger ten more minutes, or she was going in alone, slackers. When her phone rang, she didn’t even check the caller ID. “If you are going to bail, save it, I would have been done here if I wasn’t waiting on you two.”

“Well, good morning to you too, Cease,” a rich baritone replied. She froze and pulled her face away to check her guess.

“Yup, just did the assumption ass thing, whatcha need Winchester?” She leaned back against the driver’s side door of her pick up as she listened to his very detailed request. “If you had a prophet all this time, how come you didn’t share some winning lotto numbers?”

She heard the exhaustion over the phone, the snark was to draw out the conversation as Roger had finally shown up. CC relished in making him listen to her side of the line as he stewed in apologetic, if not awkward intrusion.

“Nah, not that kind of prophet, think decoder ring. Anyway, you see anything or if you get a demon talking, send a line. Alright?” Dean wrapped up his request.

“Alright. Take care.”

“Yeah, you too.” He ended a little too sadly.

CC slid the phone into her pocket to smile innocently at Roger. “Since you’re late, you get body duty, I’m going to catch up with the Sheriff.” He rolled his eyes and nodded, letting her lead the way.

The refrigerator was nearly empty when they slid the body of the old man you rode into the middle row, chest height for easy access. You were fascinated by the vivisection and organ removal, leaving the doctor to do his job. The Sheriff was friendly despite being extremely uneasy about the details of the case. You had to hold back from giving him the scare of his life more times than you could count. “Psychopaths are bad for PR,” you heard as the evidence was verified and files were exchanged. Now, in the cold and the dark you waited, hoping you had hit all the neon warning lights that would bring somebody useful within arms’ reach.

The coroner began muttering under his breath, something about the Feds and not having time for this. He quickly brought out the focus of the investigation, the body of your escape vessel that had been dead for weeks when it mutilated a prized bull and took two blasts to the torso. Another man’s voice began asking questions, weird substances and oddities in the coroner’s findings.

“Yeah, you know what, I haven’t gotten it sent out yet, but his ears were lined with this powder,” there was scraping and shuffling before he handed the vial to the investigator. “Besides the whole, eating a cow raw thing, that was weird.”

“Right.” The stranger listened as the coroner read all the medical jargon from the report back to him. “Thanks, Doc, I think I will just check the other body quickly while I wait for my partner to finish up with the Sheriff.”

“Harold Simmons, not much weird there, poor guy,” the door opened, and you felt the tray jostle the stiff that you were squatting in. Resisting the urge to tear open the eyelids and treat both the men to their own wet shorts, you laid still, waiting for the hunter to show his true colors. The funny thing about Hell was that it hadn’t taught you how gullible and disposable humans were. The constant torture and regeneration of the soul made any act possible, but back on Earth a hang nail could practically do them in. You had yet to perfect the art of handling them properly, your own strength and distaste winning over patience and inconspicuousness. When the coroner finally shut the door behind him, the hunter dug the vial of sulfur from his pocket, cracking the safety seal and sniffing away like any asinine teenager in chemistry class.

“Blech, should have known.” Roger capped the sample and put it back among the doctor’s collected evidence on a cart.

“You know, you don’t smell like daisies either,” you replied, sniffing the air haughtily from your seat on the metal rack.

The hunter balked at you before throwing a baggie of salt at your face. The slight residue on the exterior of the plastic seal smarted, but the contents remained secure as the bag bounced off the grizzled jaw of your meatsuit and fell to the floor. You jumped from your perch at the man who was know fumbling with his phone and aiming a useless handgun at your head. You sighed, reaching out and snapping his wrist effectively liberating his weapon. He cried out, a whimper more than scream.

“Now, I don’t have to kill you,” you crooned, sliding the barrel of the gun along his jaw, “just want to talk. I was hoping some of your kind would come sniffing around.”

“I ain’t gonna talk, man, I don’t make deals,” He groaned, rocking his shatter joint on his chest. Well, he was playing tougher than you gave him credit for, which just made it more exciting.

“Oh, no, honey, I’m not here to upsell you for the soul suite of your choice,” you bent over, cold skin flush against his greasy forehead, instantly he kicked away, disgusted. A guttural laugh broke from the old man, lungs that weren’t, wheezing with the effort. “No, but how ‘bout you tell me about them Winchester boys, eh?” The toothless mouth loose with a hapless grin.

Just as you finished whispering a flash of metal caught your eye, a spell blade slashed against the sinewy forearm of your vessel as you spun to face your attacker. The flesh bubbled, the air soon filled with it. Now this was a hunter, she was crouched down, her weapon rolling between her fingers as she circled you for another opening. You had lost the gun in the distraction before her arrival. Her hair was pinned back, but it was dark and coarse, her professional full-length coat floating behind her like a cape. She tried signaling her partner, but you kicked the gun out of reach of his good hand.

You taunted her, “Look-y here boys, the big girl is bringing the hurt. Fancy blade you got there, where’d you get something like that? Two for one deal? The coat and the dagger free with purchase?”

“I fucking hate mouthy demons,” she snipped through clenched teeth.

“CC!” The man bellowed, he had left his path for the gun, instead going back to the forgotten sack of saline. The bag flew through the air and just as she caught it, you ejected from the dead man’s jaw and into the air, you aimed for the injured man in hopes to play on the woman’s sympathies. But he was somehow warded. Frustrated, you snaked back, finding her throat much more accommodating. Being inside a living vessel was like jumping onto a moving train, her thoughts and instincts fighting every piece of your presence and prodding.

“CC? Can you hear me?” All the color had drained from Roger’s face as she shuddered underneath your weight.

“My knife, Rog,” she stammered, she sure was strong. You stood frozen, willing her to grab her gun and put five rounds through the back of his skull, to scream for the Sheriff, to do a twostep; the bitch wouldn’t budge. You roamed her memories, floating through the day at the farm with the Sheriff, her annoyance that the man she was working with was late, a phone call about a prophet. Kevin Tran. A request from an old friend, a mutual acquaintance as it were. You were stopped before you could go deeper, a sharp jab of iron to her thigh shot you right back out of her tense jaw.

Fascinated and annoyed, you disappeared out of the open door and into the hallway that ran the length of the municipal building. You dove into a spherical clerk who was overseeing marriage licenses and stayed put.

“What the hell was that?!” Roger screeched.

“That,” CC panted, “was a demon, dumb ass.” She kissed the iron face of her trusty knife as it had just saved her from being a sulfur buffed surfboard. CC stood, helping the gangly man to his feet. After quickly realizing how impossible it would be to find the demon among the building full of office staff and deputies. They, instead, cooperated to ease the vacated corpse back onto the gurney-like bed he had sprang from. They worked quickly, not wanting to bring any more suspicions to the small town’s doorstep.

After a day next to the police scanner while cruising the simple farm highways in either direction, Roger, Geoff and Chloe called it a night. They would stay up in shifts, salt lining the door and windows, waiting for the murderous damnation to leave a trail of bodies. It was three days without any sign or circumstance that would warrant further investigation. They had lost it, best to move on and pray a better hunter faced it next.

The orthopedic lifts in the rubber soled shoes rubbed mercilessly against the woman’s high arches as she shuffled down the frontage road to the outdated pick up truck. She was sticky with sweat, and the dry air didn’t help her breathing. Her thin top clung to the lumps and rolls as she waddled along, hoping she would catch the Federal Agents before they left town. She had no idea how she knew where they were staying or why she needed to see them, but she hurried all the same. At the tarnished number twelve she stopped, chest heaving and permed hair clinging to her temples. She raised her doughy hand to knock when the door swung back, a gun level with her face as she lost her voice, “Don’t shoot!” came later as her eyes clamped shut and her hands raised in surrender.

“What do you want?” The female agent spat, lowering the weapon into the back of a pair of jeans, the large leather knife case obvious on her hip.

“Just wanted to stop you before you left, my name is Darlene Woods, I work at the Sheriff’s office.” The older woman’s voice was shrill and persistent. “Now, why did I come all the way here?” the woman held her hand to her mouth, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Do you need me to call someone for you? Ms. Woods? Is everything alright?” Chloe Collins rested against the motel room door, worry for the older woman only slightly overtaking her paranoia.

“Just give me a minute, dear,” Darlene looked at the ground, her hands on her hips as if her memory would surrender to her grimace. “Oh, silly me, I remember!”

And she smiled with a darkness in her eyes that Chloe knew all too well.

**Earth date: April 30, 2013**

**Location: Albuquerque, New Mexico**

She had been heading East on nothing but a hunch, the news stories and tips fading to white noise as she let the mile markers lead her onward. Chloe sat at the Biggersons’ counter nursing her second coffee refill. She could have asked for a box for her leftover lunch, but she was going to hit the road anyway, might as well eat as much as she could because it was who knows how long until her next stop. There was an ironic rebellion to her giving the monstrous restaurant chain her business, since they had been slowly poisoning a third of America not a year earlier while the Leviathans roamed free. One more monster invasion she had survived and now lived to enjoy their sweet potato fries another day.

Her waitress stormed out of the backroom in sobs, the entire room quieted as her predicament spread throughout the dinning area.

“Margie!” The manager chased after her from the kitchen, his face worried with a mix of personal pain.

Just then the televisions all changed to a live news broadcast, the sister franchise in flames in Santa Fe. CC watched the wreckage as the drama from the backroom became clear. Just as the news shot panned out in order to get the reporter back in the shot, she caught it: a mysterious figure amongst the flames. A tiny voice in the back of her head told her to ignore it, that it wasn’t worth her time. She promptly ignored the voice, bemusedly noting that the next leg of her trek would be much shorter than she originally thought.

CC left two twenties under her saucer and shrugged into her suede leather coat. Some days a generous tip was all it took to turn a server’s day around and Chloe had more money than time.


	5. Crowley and the Queen

**Earth Date: May 1, 2013  
Location: US Hwy 56 just South of Dodge City**

The scene at the diner was something Chloe couldn’t drive away from fast enough. The bodies littered the debris as if there was an explosion, all slumped on the floor, thrown from their booths or stools. There had been no bomb, no gas leak, no grease fire. It was arson and it was covering something much darker than even a seasoned hunter could see. Unable to find all the pieces and put the puzzle together, just to have it crumble again. There had been sulfur and before the security tapes were fried, a man grabbed a waitress’s face and her eyes melted with his touch.  
The Fire Marshal was certain it had been tampered with, that it was a trick of reflection and camera flares. CC allowed the bewildered investigators to have their elaborate hoax of technological malfunction, because if they knew that Angels had massacred a restaurant full of people, they would be no better off. And those people wouldn’t be any less dead. There were only two hunters that she knew ran with an Angel, though she hadn’t heard much about him since Dean had gotten out of Purgatory. Calling a friend with news like this usually required liquid courage and the bullshit detector of face-to-face conversation would be best to ease her growing concerns. That was why she was still driving East, she was going to see what the Winchesters knew about both Angels and Demons at another godforsaken Biggersons’.  
At least that was the motivation she had accepted from your silent nudging.

***

No one was home, the obviousness hitting you like a ton of bricks of disappointment and uncertainty. You were so close to seeing Dean again and now it was like you were trapped in a dream. What were you going to do with her now? Since she first expelled you, you strained to stay quiet, while watching and waiting. Only every so often you would send her a message or prompt her to act. The pull to drive East, the quick jump to the Winchesters when Angels were involved in the destruction; all just teensy suggestions on your part. You didn’t want to scare her, and you certainly did not want to draw attention to her from her fellow hunters. Possession was like torture: you just had to keep at it until you found all the chinks in the armor. Along that vein, you let Chloe work herself out of the predicament as you quietly continued to establish yourself in the back of her mind.  
Chloe tapped at the sealed door with the steel toe of her work boot in mild annoyance. She knew hunters and those with a home base generally were gone only as long as they had to be. She could lurk in town, wait out the infamous black Chevy or she could try to get a straight answer from them over the phone. They were all liars at the end of the day, and though she had been through enough with Sam and Dean to trust them both with her back on a case, she doubted they would sell out their angel buddy, if he was involved.  
In a stubborn fit, she stomped back to the cab of her pick up and made herself as comfortable as possible. Her dreams were broken memories and loops of unsuccessful hunts. She secretly kept score of her kills, assists and rescues. Some people had titles and some people saved diligently for the future. Chloe Collins viewed success on the backs of dead monsters, souls put to rest and exorcised demons. She may not be as famous as those boys of John’s or as resourceful as Bobby Singer had been, but she was a damn professional. You got a sour taste in your mouth when you realized how she would handle it once she found you out. You stopped yourself from spiraling in empathy, the confusing emotion had you dulled as day broke.  
Just after sunrise a jolting bang on the old rusted hood woke Chloe with a start. Knife raised like a slasher movie villain, she waved Dean off as he perched against his forearms on the cold metal window frame. 

“What brings you around these parts?” He lifted his scarred chin to speak through the crack in the window.  
“Don’t you ever sleep? Give a girl some beauty rest before you start grilling her, Winchester.” Chloe yawned into her wrist, if looks could kill Dean would have needed another resurrection. Dean, it was Dean, just beyond the slab of metal and plate of glass. He watched her amused with a glint in his green eyes. They were so bright, something about natural light and the surrounding foliage hit you unexpectantly. For all the beauty of the Earth, an old melody chimed in your thoughts as you saw him, your final torture, for the first time in true flesh and blood.  
“Come on, Cease, you’re camped outside my front door, you’ll give a guy a complex if you don’t fess up.”

“God forbid, but this isn’t about you and your precious ego, Dean.” She huffed, scooting down the bench seat and out of the driver’s side door. Dean chivalrously held it open as she stretched, he tried not to notice as her shirts rode up to show a sliver of her thick waist. “So, that kid you’re looking for? Who else is on his trail because a whole Biggersons got roasted and I’d bet my granddaddy’s blade that it was Angels.”

Dean squinted at her now, “You were in Sante Fe? Yesterday?”

“Not a bad drive this time of year.” She noticed how he hadn’t invited her in and how he seemed to be blocking her from the door, intentionally or not it was a tell. You hated to admit it, but she was right to question his actions.

Dean nodded, still wary. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but that wasn’t us. Sammy and I just got back from the Two Rivers Casino, North end of Colorado.” He was giving her his best schmooze face, and CC was not enough of a morning person to play nice. “And thanks for keeping an eye out, but don’t worry about Kevin, we got him back.”

Chloe watched him carefully, “Oh, sure, I’m going to buy you were off on a boys’ gambling weekend with your lost prophet when we got Angels killing some two-dozen people?” She kept her tone level or tried to. Dean didn’t flinch, but he lowered his voice. 

“Look, CC, I’m up to my eyeballs in otherworldly crap. Once Sammy figures out his next hurtle, thanks to Kevin he’s got somewhere to start, I’ll worry about Angels. Right now: I’m at my limit worrying about slamming the doors of Hell.”

Your heart raced, or Chloe’s raced for you. It felt like a silent jab at your presence. You didn’t know where to nudge her next. Lucky for you, her instincts were good, allowing you to sit back, and try to keep up with their dynamic.

“How’s Tweedle Dumb handling it?” She asked, the shift in conversation loosened his mask and you saw him, the real him. Vulnerable and battled-hardened, it had only been a few Earth years, had he really lived so much?

“You ever gonna stop with the nicknames? He was just a kid,” Dean’s face cracked into a reminiscent smile.

“Shit, what did that make us then?! Nah, it’s good to remind you boys where you stand,” Chloe teased back, resting her shoulder against the bed of her truck. They both felt the impasse, a few lingering glances shared between them before she decided to be the one to move it along. “Who’d’ve figured things would have gotten to such a scale back then?”

Dean huffed, an almost chuckle as he nodded. “You miss the old days?”

“Yeah, maybe, sometimes. I mean, there’s people we lost, and they should be remembered. But I guess, there wasn’t much else to miss?” She scrunched her face in a playful grimace. “If I get hung up on what ifs, then I’d just be working myself into a corner.” Chloe yawned again, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders. “Look, I’ma head out, y’all are busy and I need something to kill after yesterday.”

You saw it then, the nervous energy that had been holding Dean together, lighten ever so slightly along his shoulders and jaw. He didn’t want her hanging around, despite the momentary waxing nostalgic. You hoped you could search through her memories later and find just how those nicknames started. They had a past, nothing as absurd or tragic as yours and Dean’s, but something that needed to be understood all the same. If you were to stick around, if she was as receptive as you needed her to be. 

CC tipped her head, her messy bun lolling off the top of her head, giving Dean a squint, which led to a wink. “Well, if you need some Wings bent or some back up, you know my number.”

“That I do. Thanks for checking in,” Dean held out one of his arms for a quick one-armed hug. She was on the taller side, chin resting on his shoulder with minimal tip toes, the closeness of their bodies was dizzying. You hadn’t experienced physical affection in decades. Dean smelled like old leather with a perplexing layer of musty books over a rich, if faded spiced cologne. And before you could truly appreciate it, the hug ended. Chloe opened the ornery door of her battered truck to climb into her next endeavor.

“Nice ride, how long have you had her?” Dean asked, admiring the old bruiser of a truck.

Chloe rolled her eyes, “A few months. Beats the alternative.”

“That it does. Take care.” Dean patted the door and CC replied with a genuine smile. 

She turned in a wide arch, headed back on to the service road that led away from the Bunker and into Lebanon. Every part of you wanted her to turn around, to hug him again, to throw herself at his feet. Anything but this parting that felt like a limb was being severed, something that you had experienced enough to pinpoint with absolute certainty the relative emotional to physical trauma. He could have said no, could have sent her packing, but he also could have said yes.  
But there was no justification for any of those daydreams. The Winchesters and the prophet, Kevin Tran, were working to lockdown Hell. Crowley had lost his shiny bargaining chip turned fount of information. Any demon with an ounce of loyalty would return immediately to their post and seek an audience with the King. Unfortunately, the only being you held dearer than demon kind was slowly disappearing behind Chloe’s battered fender. What the fuck did that make you?

***

Dean was going to kill Cas. Then Naomi and Cas again for good measure. If Chloe had pieced together what happened in Sante Fe, then other hunters would too. He didn’t know if they could link the carnage back to Castiel specifically, but his involvement was damning enough. Why was he so hard to steer true? Dean didn’t know if he was more angry or disappointed. It smarted when Cas left him and took the Angel Tablet along. After that betrayal and now another thirty dead people; Dean didn’t know what to do with the Angel anymore.  
He loved the guy, but could he trust him again?

**Earth Date: December 4, 1929  
Location: Hell, Accounting and Acquisitions Department**

He felt her eyes on him as she sauntered through the row of desks, pencil pushers along one edge and fast-talking used car salesman along the opposite. She was unimpressed with his promotion, second in command of the department. Abaddon was an ancient demon part of a regime that had seen its time come and go and was impossibly able to cling to power. While Crowley was a new upstart, barely a demon two centuries. He thought she was an entitled, outdated snob, she found him a trashy bamboozler. It was hatred at first sight.  
He had brought in half a year’s worth of deals in a month, the human world falling into financial crisis had the more pragmatic people turning to the Crossroads instead of taking a walk out of their office building windows. With unrest across Europe after the Great War, her side of the coin remained just as dazzling. Hell was fully invested in the 20th Century, it was just a matter of what kind of power men craved, political or financial. Abaddon liked to watch humanity squirm, while Crowley stole their souls and their wives’ knickers and they thanked him for it.  
She left the office floor without a word to the young salesman or his superior. He wouldn’t see her again until sometime later after he had cleaned up quite nicely.

**Earth Date: May 6, 2013  
Location: One of Crowley’s Mansions, Somewhere along the East Coast, USA**

Crowley sat at his desk with the seventh book in the Supernatural series, finding that he hadn’t moved since picking up the fifth novelization of the thorns-in-his-side’s conquests. He detested that he was so easily lost in the stories, the voices ringing out in immature familiarity as Dean and Sam searched for their wayward father. If Crowley wasn’t at risk of being put out of business by the dynamic duo, he might have been routing for them. Past them, at least. Now he was just casually making a kill order with the names of the Winchesters’ tiny victories neatly in line for the slaughter.  
Because if anything could get those flannel clad codependents in line it was an existential crisis over a cleared or potentially negatively balanced moral scale. Damsels in distress, were just a means to an end in this carefully crafted scenario. Always two steps ahead with innumerable pokers in the fire, Crowley relished in his new game. But it wasn’t a game it was hostage negotiation, a potential all-out war on the Winchesters if they followed through. That was a rather unlikely if.

**Earth Date: May 14, 2013  
Location: Hell, Welcome and Reception Platform**

Abaddon was expecting a search and seizure, she got a genial smirk and a wave through by the guard. It had been only fifty-five years and somehow everything had changed. The meatsuit drew more attention than her presence and she quickly grew more disgusted the further she stepped into the executive level of Hell. Crowley, unsurprisingly, was not in his office or on his thrown. He seemed to keep a varying schedule between Earth-side operations and below ground bureaucracy.  
“Color me not surprised,” she retorted to his secretary. “Playing with Hunters like they were his toy soldiers.”  
It was time to redecorate and redistribute their focus. It was time for Hell to be Evil again.

**Earth Date: May 15, 2013  
Location: Ashland, OH**

Chloe yawned into the back of her wrist, the streetlights blaring against the quiet street as she hurried back to her truck. The vamps’ nest had been cleared out in a hurry, one or more of them had gotten her scent and either skipped town or were stalking her this very second. She made a beeline for the rear of the vehicle, making a cursory perimeter before yanking the creaky door open. Nothing lurking behind her tires or in the bed, as she pulled herself into the driver’s seat a shooting star burst through the sky.  
Chloe closed her eyes and made a wish, something both whimsical and pathetic: ‘Please don’t let this be my last wish, may I have the time to make it to better things.’ 

The truck bed shifted with a sudden, if graceful, distribution of weight. An unnerving chill ran up the length of Chloe’s spine as she started the engine. She adjusted the mirror, purposely giving the vampire a flash of her steely eyes. She gunned it, letting the tires scream against the county road, the creature’s strength protecting it from the kickback as she slammed on her brakes.  
You snarled against the predator’s confidence, it bared its teeth in the moonlight, seen through the angled reflection via Chloe’s eyes. She slammed the shifting arm on the steering column, flying into reverse Chloe whipped the truck into a Y turn, throwing the vampire’s center of gravity off before flying back toward its nest. One more reckless shift and grinding of brakes and the vampire flew out of the bed. Chloe’s smugness was well earned, she reversed for the coup de gras, smearing the vampire against the crumbling pavement. As she took up her machete once more, severing what was left of the monster from its remaining skull, its dark blood streaked across her boots and hubcap. A shimmering in the gruesome liquid caught her eye and she looked up to a harrowing sky. Thousands of shooting stars were crashing to Earth as an ominous pit opened in your collective stomach.  
She had gotten her wish, it wouldn’t be her last, and you knew that taking it as a positive was not necessarily a rational way to spin this outcome.

**Location: South Western New York**

Dean barreled down the back roads with Sam in the backseat, the falling Angels an afterthought as he pushed Baby to her limit. Sam. Please, God no, not now, not like this. ‘Damnit why did you leave him alone with Crowley for so long Dean?!’ His father’s voice still echoed through his thoughts, when he messed up. When he put Sammy in danger, John always resurfaced. Dean inhaled a forced breath and blinked, letting his foot up lightly as they flew over an abandoned railroad crossing.  
The tighter he held on to the steering wheel, the quieter Sam became.  
Sam?  
“Sammy?!”


	6. Friends in a Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Chapter Warnings. CC meets an angelic hitchhiker. Our demon reader stretches a bit. We learn more about CC and see Dean jump into action.

_The dark figured loomed in the doorway, an insipid strobe light shone from another room, effectively blinding her as she tried to make out a face or species to her capture. Chloe was pinned down to a wide table, unable to move any of her extremities and the maddening realization that she was going to die like some bitch in a horror movie caused her to taunt the bastard._  
_“Oh goodie, you’re here—” her voice came out flat, as if she had an accent or something shoved in her mouth. When she looked down at her surroundings, everything shifted. Her hands paled and thinned as she tried to figure out what was happening. Then his voice sent a shiver down her spine, it was familiar yet ominous. Her head snapped up to face him when suddenly she woke up._  
The raggedy blanket she kept along the passenger’s seat back wedged beneath her head as a makeshift pillow.  
  
**Earth Date: October 8, 2013  
** **Location: A Rest Stop Somewhere between Madison and Milwaukee**  
  
  
She never had nightmares, for a hunter it was a rare quality, one that she had prided herself on. That was until she started to, when exhaustion nor booze could quell the festering dreams that haunted her even in daylight. CC started to question her fortitude, trying to relive the past few weeks and see what would have triggered such elaborate horrors. It was like she had ingested someone’ else’s trauma, the unfinished memories at odds with her own strengths and fears. She quickly grew dismayed over the new, if unfounded, weakness.  
CC sat up, rubbing her face with flat swipes of her palms, chasing away the barely two hours of sleep she had managed before the last episode. She stared at the clock on the dash before grumbling to herself and starting the engine. She had turned off her phone the night before after a landline had refused to stop calling and to leave a message with more information than a selfish urgency. There were only a handful of people Chloe Collins would answer after that kind of dramatics, and two of them were dead. She thought about calling Garth, but let the idea float out of her focus as quickly as the wind picked up over the moraines. 

It was another day before she remembered to turn her phone back on, having driven mindlessly until she stopped in front of an overgrown gas station and convenience store that looked like it had survived a tornado or some other natural disaster that would have shattered its windows. There was a residue to the place, as if a spirit had led her there to clean up its mess. If there was a spook behind the numbing atmosphere, it remained perpetually silent and out of sight.

“CC, look, I know things are probably bad out there, but if there is any chance you are near Colorado, call me. Sam’s laid up and, I, I can’t do this myself, not right now. Consider this calling in all my favors. Thanks, Chloe.” Dean Winchester’s voice dropped on her name, it was a plea, not a sign off. He never used her real name. And he rarely asked for help. She turned West before scrolling for his number in her contacts list.  
Nothing seemed real anymore.  
**  
****Location: Nebraska**  
Despite the bright sunshine and crisp air, Castiel was growing bitter towards his surroundings. He heard Hael’s warnings in his memory as he walked down the quiet two-lane road. Hoping he could do what he had to, in order to stay as far away from every other angel as possible. He had changed clothes, spending his last coins on vending machine nutrients and a bottle of water. The truck driver had been polite enough, dropping him off at the next stop without any agreed upon repayment. And so, he started walking, again, painfully hungry and alone.  
The passing vehicles rumbled passed Cas in a blur, his arm held out awkward and listless as he glanced half-heartedly at the few potential rides. Suddenly a rusted pick up screeched along, failing to come to a complete stop as it blew through the shoulder and into the grassy ditch. Castiel instinctively chased after the seemingly out of control vehicle, worry cresting his brow. When he reached the passenger side window, his stomach pitched against its emptiness.

Demon.

The woman appeared frozen, knuckles white against the worn steering wheel. She was shaking either from the impact of the accident or from fighting the entity that was trying to control her. Once he spoke, she spun to face him, her heart shaped face familiar over the parasite’s sinister features.

“I know you—”

“Castiel?” The woman’s voice croaked out of her clenched jaw. The flash of her grey eyes and the charm hanging from her rear  
view mirror brought pieces of old conversations and images back into focus. Dean mentioning a friend who had made repelling talismans by combining Native American chants with hoodoo ingredients. Her grandfather was a master of petroglyphs, spellwork and runes while her mother had visions from an early age. 

“Chloe? Chloe Collins? Did Dean send you?” Castiel’s voice was urgent, but the worry clouded his now human features.

“I tried to stop, but my foot, it’s like it wouldn’t--- am I okay?” She begged for reassurance, not being able to move more than an inch in either direction. Castiel pained for this woman, unaware and at the mercy of her attacker.

“You’re going to be fine,” Castiel walked around the truck, never taking his eyes off of the hunter. When he reached the driver’s side door, the demon took hold. Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes blackened as a horse-like huff flared her nostrils.

“Hello, thief. Long time.” The demon struggled back against her host, Chloe’s voice wavered as she pushed open the door, sending Cas flat on his ass. She leaped from the cab, nearly pouncing on him. “What’s a-matter?” The demon continued to taunt him, “It seems if the jailbreaker has lost its wings?”

Castiel drew the Angel Blake from inside his stolen hoodie, the fear and humanity rolling towards the demon’s nostrils in intoxicating waves. The weapon got the demon’s attention, she snarled at him with as worried voices came out of nowhere. Cas looked back to the road, a family had pulled over to check on the stalled vehicle. The mother’s voice beckoning to the father as he approached the struggling pair.

“Everybody okay over here?” The man’s large hands were gripped in front of his chest as if he was warming them before beginning a task. Chloe’s eyes returned to normal as she leaned down to pull Castiel back onto his feet. He didn’t say anything but gave the demon/hunter a sidelong glance.

“Yeah, should be, I got caught rubbernecking this one, but he was kind of enough to see that me and my truck are square.” Chloe’s voice had returned, her thick hair drifting in the breeze as she shoved her hands in the front pockets of her jeans.

“You okay, man? You look like you saw a ghost!” The concerned motorist chortled as Castiel thought about what the man meant.  
“No, there are no restless spirits here.” Castiel’s confusion broke the man’s revelery.  
“Alright, could you do me a favor and wave to the Missus? She wouldn’t believe me unless everyone’s smiling.” As if on cue, Chloe and the bystander turned and waved back at his minivan, his wife beaming with relief as Castiel tried to patch on a smile. As soon as the family was back on the road with another round of enthusiastic waving from Chloe, Castiel redrew his blade.

She froze with the deadly point pressing gently above her kidney, “You kill me, you kill the girl, Castiel. You might be a half-dead has-been, but you wouldn’t do that to the Winchesters. Not when Dean sent her to collect you.”  
“What are you doing with her?” Castiel was unmoved by her rationality.  
“Nothing you need to worry about, besides,” the demon spun, hard, landing a firm elbow to his temple. “We are too exposed out here, for both our sakes.”

***  
Castiel woke in her passenger seat a few hours later, the sun igniting the horizon behind them in a burst of pink and lavender. Chloe smiled at him as she briefly took her eyes off the road. He sat up, hand twitching over his missing weapon.  
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to hunt you Castiel.” Her voice was soft and genuine, he realized he was talking to the woman and not the demon now. “But, if you don’t believe me, the Angel Blade is under your seat. I didn’t want to accidentally stab you while I dragged your unconscious ass into the cab.”

Cas didn’t bother verifying her explanation, he had grown too distracted by the giant-sized soft drink in the cup holder. “May I?” He asked with an audible swallow over his parched throat.  
“Be my guest,” CC hummed a melody after her offer, one in stark contrast to the radio commercial jingle playing. Castiel removed the thin plastic lid and poured the bubbly, icy liquid down his throat. He paused when the frigid temperature burned his chest, just as an obnoxious belch escaped his lips.  
“Excuse you,” CC chuckled, handing him a fistful of napkins from the glove compartment, he hadn’t realized he had spilled down his front.  
“Why are you helping me?” Cas’s question caught her off guard.

“Obviously, so I can hold you hostage and take advantage of you,” CC didn’t miss a beat, winking at the perplexed grimace on the Angel-man’s face. “I’m a friend of the Winchesters? Dean was freaking out because Sam was laid up, so he asked if I was near Colorado?” She continued to end each sentence as if it were a question, hoping the connections would be made in his brain.  
“When did you last talk to Dean?”  
“I haven’t, just started driving West. Got pretty lucky to have spotted you, too. You look half-dead. Everything alright?” She was leading him, but he didn’t feel threatened with her concern.  
Castiel sighed, “I’m not up to my full power, thank you for your help, Ms. Collins.”  
“CC, Cas. It’s, just, CC.”

***

Castiel felt their presence before he heard his name over the radio waves, the Angels were closing in on him. Traveling with a demon, even a somewhat accommodating one, had been too risky after all. They had stopped for gas and a quick meal, but he knew better than to lead his fallen brethren back to CC and whoever was possessing her. Before CC returned from the women’s room, Cas ducked out of the small convenience store and made his way across the highway to a fast food restaurant.  
He slowly made his way up the frontage road and stuck his thumb out for a ride in the opposite direction. Twenty minutes later, he was whisked away, hopefully drawing the Angels away from the confusing demon’s scent.  
That night he called Dean from a borrowed cellphone at a group home.  
“Hello, Dean.”  
“Cas, what the hell?!” Dean barked over the line.  
“I wanted to contact you because, well, I left CC at a truck stop in Nebraska.”  
“Glad to know she got my message, why’d you split? Everything alright?”  
“No, the Angels were trailing me, and I didn’t want to endanger her. Dean? How long has she—"  
“Yeah, sorry about that, she can be a bit of a pistol sometimes,” Cas could hear the eye roll in Dean’s voice.  
“That’s not what I mean, Dean. You do know that—”  
“Oh, okay, right. Sorry, man, Sam was talking. Listen, you just get here asap. I’ll call Chloe before she burns half the corn fields looking for your ass.”  
“Thanks, Dean.”  
“You sure you don’t want us to pick you up?”  
“No, Dean, I think I can manage another state or two.” It was Cas’s turn to roll his eyes.  
“Well, okay. But, uh, be careful out there, man.” Castiel hung up as his cover name was called out from the reception desk, announcing his bed assignment.

***  
**Earth Date: October 13, 2013  
Location: Las Vegas, Nevada**

Chloe kicked herself for showing up to the care facility on a Sunday afternoon. The residents were exhausted from an outing the day before and the staff was not the most enthusiastic to last minute visitors. An extremely tall blonde female resident frowned at CC as she approached the corner where her mother sat gossiping. With the practiced patience and subtly of her trade, she slid into a seat beside her mother and listened to the perceived drama around her.

One of the night nurses was a kleptomaniac, Doris, her mother’s companion was certain. It was all very mundane with a nostalgic level of neighborhood paranoia, drawing an easy curl to her closed lips. CC sat for ten minutes before the women looked up and realized they had company, her hands folded over her elbows as if holding herself together.

“Hey, Mama,” she leaned forward and patted her mother’s knee. Her mother watched her skeptically, following her hand as it retracted back to her lap as if Chloe’s had personally offended her.  
“What’s the matter with you?” Her mother’s tone was blunt, but to be expected. “Your energy is all foggy.”  
“It’s nice to see you too,” CC grumbled, tucking her hair behind her ear, her piercings sparkling in the pre-sunset glow that shown through the long windows behind them.  
“Please tell me you didn’t bring something with you? I don’t have the means to expel spirits in here.” Her mother huffed, searching the area around their small square of chairs as if a ghost would jump out at the suggestion and attack them all. CC sighed, somethings never changed, mood disorder medicated or not. Her mother had dark eyes and kept her hair in a thick, meticulous plait down her back. Other than that, the women were nearly identical, barely a laugh line or forehead crease deeper on her mother’s smooth features versus her own.

“I’m clean, Ma’am, I know what I’m doing,” CC whispered adamantly now. “Can we talk in private?”  
Her mother eyed Doris knowingly, “Like you’re going to rat us out, I swear.”  
“Fine.” Chloe leaned back, sighing as the older women shared a look.  
“Constance, I’ll be back, I’m going to tell our eavesdropper to mind her own damn business.” Doris and Constance snapped their heads back to land disapproving eyes on the woman that had given CC a very similar look when she first arrived. Soon, Doris was out of earshot.  
“Do you hear them?” CC asked, looking at her mother’s shoes.  
“Of course, I hear them, girl. They won’t shut the hell up. It’s like they think they’re the only ones to experience a change of address.” Constance Collins groaned, rubbing her temples against the broadcast of celestial communication.  
“Yeah, well, moving pains are the least of our worries. It’s like a temper tantrum met turf warfare.” CC explained what she had figured out about the dispelled angels’ situation.  
“What are you going to do about it?” Constance watched her daughter, noting the shadows that drooped into her usually full cheeks.  
“See how it pans out for now, I guess. Not really something a single hunter can do about all of Heaven.” CC shrugged.  
“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.” Her mother recited verbatim.  
“Thanks, Margaret, didn’t realize I had stepped in to a Soc class.” CC rolled her eyes.  
“Don’t shoot the messenger, Chloe Cathleen. If you want to fix this mess; you can. Simple as that.”  
“Thanks?”  
“Anytime,” her mother smirked at her, until CC’s face pulled up and grinned back. “You in town?”  
“Not really,” CC admitted, checking her phone for the time.  
“Well, the night meds get distributed soon, better scoot before they added you to the queue, doll-baby.”  
CC stood, rubbing her sweaty palms on the front of her fitted jeans. “Take care of yourself, Mama.”  
Constance stood leaning up to place her cheek against her daughter’s, and with a short hum came a dark send off. “Don’t be too reckless out there. Come back to me.”  
CC closed her eyes, “Of course, Mama.”  
They broke apart and left with stuttering smiles on both of their lips.  
  
**Earth Date: October 17, 2013  
** **Location: The Bunker**  
  
Dean woke to the frustrating buzzing of his phone against his nightstand, without a glance at the caller id he groaned a greeting.  
“Go for Winchester.”  
“Dean?” She sounded so small.  
“Chloe, Christ, where have you been?! I’ve been calling for weeks.” Dean sat up, batting at the covers in order to free his bare legs, tossing them over the side.  
“North Carolina, uh, just outside of Whittier.” She wasn’t sounding any better the longer she talked. “Uh, I don’t know how I got here, Dean. I remember looking into a case and then nothing.”  
“Are you somewhere safe?” Dean rubbed his eyes, panic flooding his thoughts.  
“I’m in a diner, but I don’t know where my truck is or—”  
“Okay, well get a room, call me and I’ll give them my card. Got it?”  
“Yeah, okay, right, first motel in the phone book, right?”  
“That’s my girl. Okay, sit tight. I’ll be there soon.” Dean waited for her sign off, throwing on pants with one hand to his ear.  
“Okay, thanks, Dean.” Dean swallowed, exhaling tightly before ending the call. Everything from hex bags to Angel possession crossed his mind as he drove East in a fury. He could have called another hunter, he should have told Sam where he was going, but he didn’t. He just drove.

My girl. Dean’s words flooded your thoughts as you sat hunched over your malt at the diner counter. Now the waiting began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted on my spn Tumblr, and about six chapters ahead if you wish to read more quickly!


	7. A Line Once Crossed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All slow burns must come to an end, SMUT ahead.

**Earth Date: October 19, 2013**

**Location: Cherokee, North Carolina**

They shuffled out of the precinct, the weight of the roller coaster case strung between them. Chloe wore a long-fitted jacket that tied at the waist, Dean glanced at her over the hood of the Impala as she opened the passenger side. The wind blew her hair over her face and she tucked it behind her ear while the other hand remained firmly in her pocket. He knew she was fiddling the handle of her knife through the fabric, she always did it when she lost herself in thought. CC didn’t catch the way his eyes lingered on her furrowed brow or how they came to rest on the curve of her lips.

She had been quieter these past two days than he remembered her ever being. Part of it was getting whammied. But something in his gut told him, there was more. She was having a rough patch and for as much as he admired and respected her, Dean didn’t know how to ask her about it. They hadn’t done that yet, sure they had sat in the silence after a hunt while internally unpacking the traumas and defeats. But they hadn’t confided in each other. Without any secrets or confessions shared between them; did she know that he was up to the task? Did she know that nothing she said would send him packing? Could she possibly be ready to share her burdens with someone like him?

Because God knows that Dean needed someone to answer to, someone to put him in his place, someone to stop him from taking the risks he had recently.

There was a loneliness inside her that you had taken you too long to find, kept in a quiet little corner. One that she brushed off and put on like a tarnished, invisible crown, only when she was feeling particularly reflective. It came from years of the job, of life on the road and the strained balance of portraying a caricature to meet an end. Without a home to return to, there was no one to remind her of who Chloe Collins truly was. It was an all too familiar ache. You had slid around her memories, taking note of the internal and external scar tissue. She wasn’t self-righteous, but she stuck to her guns. If you had seen her in Hell, she would have been a challenge to break, which made you privately smug. Your vessel was a spitfire, even if you weren’t prepared to test the waters by taking her reigns fully again. Even if you were slowly breaking her apart.

**Earth Date: October 26, 2013**

**Location: The Bunker**

Dean wiped the grease and oil on to an old rag before gently releasing the hood on Baby. He hadn’t needed to tune anything, but sometimes he just dove in and got dirty to give himself a task, idle hands and all that. Between Crowley and Kevin, Sam and Zeke, he was winding himself up by walking too many tightropes. He needed something clear, something that made sense and Baby was always that for him. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, but he purposely let it go to voicemail as he cleaned up his tools. Once he finished slipping each item into its place and the garage was cleaned, Dean stopped dragging his feet.

Dean held the phone to his ear as CC’s voice was gravelly over the line. “Hey, Tweedle Dean, are you and the counterpart home? I am between gigs, heading from Naperville to Amarillo. And would love to crash with you, since, you know, it’s free. And, if you aren’t sick of me, yet… Either way, I’m heading your way. Call me if you’re on a case. Thanks.”

Dean sighed and held the phone to his forehead as he fought the urge to instantly call her back. He passed the phone from hand to hand and walked out of the garage, smack into an expectant Angel who didn’t think anything Dean did was wise.

**Just after Eleven that night**

CC really didn’t need a strike out right now. She needed one, maybe two showers and a bed. Food could wait, booze wasn’t even appealing. She was teetering on the edge of a meltdown and the fact that she felt it, waiting for her, scared her shitless. It was like something had rearranged her thoughts, causing her to loop back again and again. So, as she stood in the biting rain of the autumn night, banging on their massive door, she crossed her fingers and toes that Dean had only missed her call and wasn’t ignoring her. And was home, most importantly that one Winchester or another was home.

On the other side of the door, at the base of the metal railed stairs, Dean Winchester trudged along, searching his mind for an explanation for each Sam and Zeke. The truth works too, Dean, he reminded himself. Hunched over herself, looking like a drowned rat, stood CC with an apologetic mien, that was uncharacteristically sweet on her usually no-nonsense features. He stared, when it became awkward, she looked around ensuring they were alone, while casually checking she didn’t have any stray blood or guts on her face.

“So?”

Dean shook his head, bowing back with a hand slung behind him, “Come on in, got a room waiting for ya.”

With the invitation Chloe’s feet brought her over the threshold without any missteps. The stone walls reverberated the chill in her bones, and soon Dean caught her shivering, he took her bag and dropped a pair of freshly folded towels into her unsuspecting arms.

“I’ma warn Sam you’re in the Shower Room and you’ll be staying over. Let me know if you need anything, I’ll be up for a bit yet.” Dean turned before she could reply, purposely avoiding the sight of her sliding off her drenched jacket and thermal.

“Thanks,” you whispered with her voice.

The screams brought both brothers to their feet, bedroom doors flying open with weapons raised. Chloe begged some unseen force in her sleep, fists clenched against the sheet while the comforter had been kicked to the floor. Dean set his gun on the bedside table, unable to wedge it in the soft waistband of his flannel pajama bottoms. He began shushing the terrified CC as Sam went rigid in the doorway.

“Dean,” Zeke started.

Dean sat on the bed, ignoring the angel that rode his brother out right. He placed a tentative hand on Chloe’s shoulder, the connection set her off, wrestling against him and just as he had decided to back off, Zeke repeated himself.

“Dean!” Sam’s deep voice was distorted with sleep, but it woke you both. You recoiled at the being before you, slinking to the farthest recesses of Chloe’s mind in a pathetic attempt to hide from the heavenly entity. “She’s possessed.”

“She’s having a fucking nightmare, man.” Dean spat, drawing CC to his chest as tearless sobs racked her body. “Seriously, go.” Dean looked over his shoulder as the stiff movements of the angel took his brother back to his room.

He rocked her onto his lap, her generously soft body balling against his while she tried to come to terms with the dreams and the terror Sam’s voice instilled. CC let herself absorb Dean’s warmth, the way his strong hands never tired of holding her upright. The way he didn’t flinch as her drool and tears dampened his grainy band tee. With one last stuttering exhale, she pulled back to look at him. She stared at the dark blob she had left on his peck, uselessly rubbing at it before meeting his concerned pout.

“Where’d Sam go?” the first thought that made sense besides ‘damn’ or just muttering ‘don’t let go’. “I didn’t mean to wake everyone up—”

“Don’t worry about him, k? We all have bad dreams. I just wanted to make sure you knew where you were when you came to.” Dean reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the contact froze them each in place. And before she knew it his thumb was gently stroking her cheek. Her eyes closed, relishing in the rare moment of comfort. Soon CC could feel both of their hearts racing inside their chests. When she opened her eyes again Dean was closer, his mouth parted and eyes searching. She gave him her unspoken answer, meeting his lips and taking a path she never intended to follow.

*^*

There was this depth you felt upon waking alongside her, a tremoring comfort that flowed through her as she nestled against Dean’s bare side. Understanding that in your fearful retreat from the angel, CC and Dean had had sex, meant a whole manner of sensations and feelings flooding her body, like ungrounded power lines. It was all so new that you didn’t have words for the kind of bliss and exhilaration she felt while watching him sleep. His freckles innumerable across the gentle planes of his face giving you both an awe-induced pause.

It felt like your head was stuffed with cotton balls, as those feelings grew more alien and intrusive. The gentleness of it all causing you added discomfort as she continued to stare. The way her lips molded over his shoulder in lazy kisses showed you an intimacy she hadn’t realized she had been lacking. You were mystifyingly happy for her while simultaneously wanting to melt her lips off with a blow torch.

Dean rolled into Chloe, his morning wood nestling against her plump backside. The warmth of his hand absentmindedly rubbing her arm paralyzed you. You let your jealousy sink to the background as you enjoyed their morning greeting. It was almost like she wasn’t there and almost like it was you who belonged in his arms. It was a silent wish coming true before your eyes, all the affection but without any of the connection.

Dean grumbled in her ear, “Hm, mornin’.” His voice was off kilter, but he made up for it with a dizzying drag of his soft lips down her neck. She shivered against the strip of heat, bringing them closer, her body puckered and readying itself as his cock shifted deeper between her thighs. His hands clung to her every curve, pulling her closer, pressing against the lower belly roll she hated, but in Dean’s hands every part of her was worshipped. CC never felt more wanted than that night with Dean; the following morning perhaps the only exception. She ignored the glimmer of her conscience questioning her as she moved against him.

Her body contorted, back arching and hips grinding along his weeping shaft. The firm hand that held her abdomen snaked passed her trail of downy curls, delving into her folds as his right hand groped her breast, testing its weight before angling its pert nipple for his attention. Her head fell back against Dean’s clavicle while his thick fingers played her like a long-practiced instrument. His hot breath on her neck adding to the spiraling sensations that were pooling at her core. He couldn’t see her eyes, but god, the way her mouth quaked, lips parting and pinching in on themselves with the sweetest whimpers he had ever heard.

Dean coaxed CC closer, wrist bending to enter her, quickly he gathered her want, sliding it over the head of his prick which throbbed just behind her entrance. The heel of his hand rocked against her pulsing clit, while he scissored two fingers, opening her up for him. She moaned, rolling her pelvis to accept him, her channel tight and stuttering as she enveloped him fully. She cried out his name in a shaking gasp.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he cooed casually, enjoying the strong pull of her body on his, leisurely dragging in and out of her. She held his left hand to her mound, rocking against the tough pad of flesh erratically, her storm brewing deeper as he filled and pushed her into its path. His forearm started to tingle beneath her, but he continued to take her higher, letting the stubble surrounding his lips leave ruddy patches along her tanned skin. As she clamped down with the swells of her orgasm approaching, he hummed into her ear, the deep vibrations bursting the damn as she let go.

Dean slipped his arm back, locking her in place with a hand full of pins and needles. He increased his speed now that she was putty in his arms, her damp folds fluttering against his straining shaft. “You feel so good; do you know that?” He nearly demanded as she groaned, body slowly recovering as CC tried to match each forceful rotation of Dean’s hips. “I’m so close, CC, come on baby, uhnf!”

Dean’s teeth clenched, his breath huffing into her hair as his right hand threaded up into the thick curls. “Fuhhhhhhhh-ck!” He came, freezing them both in place as he released squirts of his seed deep inside Chloe, at the perfectly impossible angle he had pinned her to him. CC’s thighs shook as he slowly softened within her, their juices slipping from her center, rich and warm. She crooked her neck, taking his mouth in a desperate kiss, breathing him in like he was the only thing tying her to this reality.

Dean’s hands roamed her body, massaging her legs, teasing her boobs, keeping her warm despite the blood that was all too slow to release from her most sensitive areas. They kissed in between making plans for the day, sweet pillow talk that was only pretension. As if they weren’t hunters and there weren’t monsters waiting for them the second they got up, faced the day and she got back on the road. In that moment, Dean and Chloe were just lovers, enjoying the indulgent bliss of new possibilities.

Internally you were shuddering between rage and orgasm.


	8. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I use dates to keep the background story in line with canon air dates. Let me know if anything confuses you.
> 
> Warnings: Heavy Angst, Drinking, Show Level stuff. Character death. Possession. Come back next week for more! xoxo

**Earth Date: October 28, 2013**

Dean didn’t realize it, but Sam had been doing most of Crowley duty. In an effort to make up for the surprise night with CC, he decided to give Sam a break, taking it upon himself to wake up early and poke the bear. Or maybe it was a needed distraction, because after sending Cas out on his ass, Dean hadn’t been able to shake the fresh guilt.

“Well, well, it’s about time,” Crowley crowed from his throne of restraints. “What? Not going to introduce me to your bird?”

Dean closed his eyes, inhaling his comeback instead of engaging the captive King of Hell. He strolled into the dungeon, stopping before the table, out of reach and imposing.

“Gone so soon? Pity, I think the place is due for a woman’s touch? Don’t you?”

“What I do in my home, never gonna be your business, Crowley. Now, what can you tell me about your goons out there wheeling and dealing?” Dean sat on the table and gave his best toothless snide smile.

“Why don’t you ask your fling, yeah? She’s seen more of the state of things than I have,” Crowley leaned forward and barked, “As I am tied to a chair like a bloody prop!”

“Yeah, well, I can always change my mind about killing you. Sam wanted to stab you in the throat.” Dean set his jaw and watched the impotent demon simmer.

“Fine. Play bad cop, you may be full of swagger and still smell like her quim, but you don’t scare me, Squirrel. Never have. Never will.” Crowley growled through his teeth, ending on a vicious smirk.

Dean sighed and walked away, making a bee line for the shower room. Fucking demons.

**Earth date: October 30, 2013**

**Location: Amarillo, TX**

The Skinwalkers were keeping the locals up in arms over Chupacabras and CC had lost all focus after her whirlwind night with Dean. Something in the pit of her stomach told her she needed to stay away from Kansas and a certain black Chevy. As she berated herself for sleeping with the elder Winchester, twice, you took over the hunting. With the coming holiday, superstition was only fueling the locals’ panic. The creatures were working in a pack, and you knew better than to approach them in their human forms. Demon or no, one against a gang of mostly male monsters made for unfavorable odds.

Using her fake identities and knowledge was easier now, there was a give and take to being inside her mind and after so much time together it felt like you had synced. Or perhaps letting her guard down with Dean had opened her up to more possibilities. He had opened her up all right. The bitter jealousy seeped through as you gave a curt nod to the animal control specialist at the latest crime scene.

The paw prints were spaced out, as if they had intentionally increased their instep to intimidate those on their trail. The tufts of hair and blood told you they were nearly feral, or infighting. Either one was a weakness to exploit and you decided to circle back with the cover of night and a freshly sharpened knife. CC had an inkling to call Garth for backup but was still rather sore about him for Kevin’s sake. She barely knew Kevin; her sense of loyalty was mind-boggling. Without addressing the issue, you continued: just Chloe and your wits in one body.

***

Her stomach clenched as the scent filled her nostrils, CC had found them, or at least two of them. She rolled the smooth handle of her blade in her right hand, the high-like adrenaline flooding her system as she stalked her prey. Your senses reached out, flooding her thoughts with more detail than she could keep up with. There were three beasts barely a hundred yards ahead, one was bleeding, and another was scared. The fear was a residual bliss, but the blood pulled at you like an addict.

They had speed on their side, so you would have to outflank them a point when a partner hunter would have come in handy. You shot back the regret and pushed on, leaving CC’s scent in a wide arch around the abandon lot. As you snaked through a busted fence and over a row of tires, the air prickled around you: someone was phasing. Before the rest of the transformations could complete, you struck. With her dual-metal blade you swung wildly, jumping from behind the stack of tires on to the now naked man.

The fearful one retaliated quickly, canines sinking in just above your ankle. CC screamed as you kicked the mutt off before slicing into its meaty shoulder. A snarl was all the remaining beast gave you before bolting for the street. With a skill you never developed you whipped the weapon after the retreating Skinwalker, the blood of its companions still fresh on the blade. Chloe pumped her fist in celebration as the poisonous metal locked into its side. You ran after it, dragging the handle straight down, spilling its insides all over the cracked earth.

Without bothering to hide the bodies, you walked away, strung out and giddy with your success. Maybe a team effort was more rewarding than volleying for control. The hunters that got wind of the kills noted the sulfur lining the crime scene. Despite the help, they weren’t too keen on having a demon do their jobs.

**Earth Date: Nov. 23, 2013**

**Location: The Bunker**

You stared down the shaggy headed twenty-year-old with mild annoyance.

“Not a scholar, sorry.” Was all you could muster before wanting to insult him. CC knew he was tired, but you really didn’t know how to deal with the disappointment of the Winchesters being on a hunt and their pet prophet being a demanding zombie.

“But look, petroglyphs are semi-intuitive if you could look over my translations, maybe you can connect them to something you know.” He stared at you with the biggest of puppy dog eyes, and with that, CC caved.

“You do know that the languages I am familiar with had no interaction with those you are deciphering? They’ve got an ocean and a few thousand years between them.”

Kevin nodded, “But Metatron was holed up here, or somewhere close. Maybe his writing influenced more than just the tribe that brought offerings to him?”

CC agreed, if only if it gave her something to do while she waited. She didn’t know what had changed her mind about avoiding Dean and therefore any potential awkwardness. Maybe she was lonely or maybe she didn’t know what she wanted, either way, there she sat in the massive stone room with an almost stranger. She quickly went crossed eyed over Kevin’s doodles and notes.

The afternoon rolled on and soon CC and you both began to hear a dull screaming. She didn’t say anything at first, assuming it was just an old furnace and even older hallways. But when words became clearer, she tossed down her pen and pushed off from the table.

“What the hell is that?” CC rolled her shoulders waiting for Kevin to resurface from his mental focus. “That voice? Hello? Don’t tell me you don’t hear that.”

“You get used to it,” Kevin shrugged. “I barely hear him anymore.”

“Who?”

“Crowley.”

“Wha- Crowley? Crowley?” CC leaned forward on her elbows as the words clarified once an English accent was taken into account.

“Yeah, they’ve had him since the whole not closing the gates of Hell debacle.” He didn’t try to hide his annoyance.

“Where?”

“The dungeon.”

“They have a dungeon?”

“They have everything.” Before your mind could spiral off track, the phrase ‘clear and present danger’ rolled through your thoughts, kicking you straight into the driver’s seat. CC was scared, but you were down right terrified as the King of Hell was being held prisoner not twenty yards away. Kudos to Sam and Dean, but there was nowhere you would rather NOT be.

Kevin watched with slight amusement as your face contorted over the processing of the information. “He’s been in there for months, CC. Weren’t you here, like a month ago? Dean didn’t tell you?”

You bit your lips and bent your head, pushing in the heavy library chair.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Kevin sighed. “Trust me, I still don’t like it.”

He was a good kid stuck with a terrible destiny, holed up in the same secluded space as the entity that held him hostage and killed his mother. Why should he like it? What power did Sam and Dean have that they could convince him it was for the best? Chloe was starting to make a very convincing argument.

“Why stick around then? If Crowley’s here? Think Abaddon is worse?”

Kevin swallowed, “Keep your enemies close?”

“I prefer mine dead, thanks.” Chloe gave him a wistful look to polish off the sadness mirrored in his eyes.

“I didn’t know hunters could scare so easily?” Kevin chuckled, settling back into his seat.

“This level of big bad is a little out of my pay grade.” You shrugged back into CC’s leather jacket, pulling her hair out of the collar. “Besides, most hunters aren’t quite as self-sacrificing as them Winchester boys. Sorry, though.”

“Yeah, well— so I’ll let Dean know you stopped by?” His dark eyes sparkling with a dormant mischief.

“That’d be nice, but I’m not holding my breath on a return call.” You stomped up the winding staircase, frustrated and slightly anxious over leaving him alone.

**Earth Date: Dec. 3, 2013 During Holy Terror**

“You know it’s not like I stopped looking at the stupid tablet. You guys go off and investigate dead angel bikers and I am still here,” Kevin groaned, rolling over in his bed for some much-deserved rest. Sam, already in his jacket, gave Dean his ‘I told you so’ eyebrow before heading out.

“Come on, Kev, let’s have another crack at it.” Dean yelled through the door, little punk had barricaded himself in.

“If CC couldn’t help me crack it, I don’t think you’re going to either. Please, just LET ME SLEEP!” Kevin moaned, knowing it was a lost cause, but vociferously opposed to it all the same.

“Whoa, back up. When was CC here?” Dean tried the handle again, brow knit tight. With little fanfare, Kevin shoved his dresser away from the door and swung the old door widely. Dean was leaning on his forearm against the door frame. “Chloe Collins, my, uh, CC was here? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Uh, porn star?” Kevin grunted, ignoring the older man for the promise of caffeine in the kitchen. Dean let his head lob to the side, biting back the realization that he had slept with someone since CC.

“Well, what did she want?” Dean asked, trailing Kevin step for step now.

“Dunno. She just said she was checking in?” Kevin swallowed, watching Dean squirm a bit gave him a rare treat. “She was here for nearly an entire day, until Crowley got mouthy.”

“Shit! I can’t wait to just end his ass once and for all.” Dean groaned, “That’s not going to be an easy thing to gloss over.”

“Ya think?” Kevin dropped his coffee mug a little too forcefully. “She was gone, like ten minutes after she found out. Said it was out of her league.”

“Yeah, well, she knows how to watch her own back,” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, he didn’t mean to start defending CC, she made her own choices, but some instincts die hard.

“You’re an idiot,” Kevin rolled his eyes and headed back to the library. “She knew that you wouldn’t call her back, even after she showed up. And once your Chastity Group hook up, I figured you had forgotten about it completely.”

“Hey, now,” Dean lowered his voice and held up his hand, “I was gonna call her, Hell, she was the one who hasn’t called.”

“Really?” Kevin patted Dean on the shoulder. “Even I know, the guy needs to initiate contact, Dean.”

Dean’s face fell, he pinched his brow, “Look, I’ll call her tonight. There’s been back-to-back cases. She’ll understand.”

Kevin stopped responding as Dean tried to convince himself that he hadn’t fucked up with CC. Soon they both settled on opposite sides of the table, one with an Ancient Tablet and one with a laptop that had seen more porn than Larry Flynt.

**Earth Date: January 14, 2014**

**Location: Mannington, West Virginia**

Chloe was drunk, staggering out the side exit of a seedy bar with a trucker or a mechanic, or whatever this guy said he was. His hands were all over her and she closed her eyes to keep the pleasure and forget the reality. His beer breath fueled kisses had her turning away, his mouth sloppily snaking down her throat. Her back pushed against the freezing truck door as he kneaded fistfuls of her ass.

“Oh, sweetheart, the things I am going to do to you,” he drawled, before swinging the passenger door open for her to climb in. Your stomach dropped at the pet name and suddenly his head had connected with the truck window. No one got to call you that, no one but Dean. Chloe had giggled slightly then rolled over, ignoring the loss of control for a decent night of unconsciousness.

The man’s cries pierced the night, “Fuck you, bitch!” He spat against the glass shards and blood pulsing down his face and into his greasy goatee. You stepped closer, knife at the ready with practiced motions.

“Not today, buddy. Today you get your holes filled.” You smiled at him as he backed into the bed of the truck, the tailgate rocked against his weight.

“Please, lady, I’ll do whatever you want,” he begged, voice choking back sobs. His heels slipped against the grainy pavement and its unevenness. You watched him cower, the blood and fear tingling all over. You didn’t have time to hide a body, because now you were drunk on other things.

“Watch your mouth next time, yeah?” You stepped back, letting him struggle back to his feet. “No more sweethearts.”

“No more sweethearts? Are you insane?” He balked, patting at his face, once eye clamped shut in pain.

“Probably.” Was all you said before walking back across the parking lot to CC’s truck. Making sure to kick in his headlights on the way.

***

Dean picked up on the third ring, his insides churning with Sam’s parting words.

‘But don’t go thinking that’s the problem, cuz it’s not.’

Dean always felt he had a handle on his crap, understanding how he ticked and able to accept his baggage, even if it didn’t make sense to other people. But Sam rejecting his reasoning for backing away from his family stung. What the hell had he meant?

With much distraction, grief and guilt he answered the call. “Hello?”

“Dean?” Fuck. CC, he had told Kevin he would call her. That felt like a lifetime ago, in a way, it was.

“Look, Cease, I’m kind of in the middle of it right now—”

“Dean? What’s the matter?” Her voice dropped, worry coating every syllable, shame struck him, hard and fast. Dean clenched his jaw against the new rush of emotion.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not right now.”

“Where are you? Dean, this isn’t funny, you shouldn’t be driving.”

He rolled his eyes, “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit, listen, I’m driving out of West Virginia. Say the word and I am there.”

“CC, you have got to stay away from me, or else you’re gonna get yourself killed.” There was a pause and Dean huffed against the sound of an engine accelerating over the line.

“Is it Sam?” Her voice came out in a tremble.

“Kevin.”

“Was it Crowley?” The anger he deserved began to surface in her words.

“No, this is all on me.” He whispered, fighting the tears once more.

“Pull over.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean Winchester pull over that car before you hurt her. I know you couldn’t give a damn about yourself right now, but don’t you dare go risking that machine being stubborn ass.”

Dean smiled at that, which probably looked more like a grimace. “I’m just outside of Pittsburgh.”

“Well, you’ve got that going for you.”

“I don’t want to drag you into this.”

“Too late. I’ll be there in an hour, hour and a half, tops.”

***

When Dean opened the door all you could smell was whiskey and self-loathing. You wanted to scoop everything that was hurting him up and banish it to another dimension. But the inexplicable helplessness that filled you as he looked into your eyes, took all thought and reason away. You stared at his defeat, mesmerized.

“Whiskey? Cuz I don’t have anything else.” Dean left the door hang open as he plopped back on to the closest bed. His sleeves were rolled up and his boots kicked against the far wall. The bottle was half empty next to the one remaining glass, logo-stamped paper lid still in place. He quickly finished his portion, hissing against the familiar sting.

“What did you do?” The voice that came out of your mouth was CC’s, you hadn’t realized she had woken up. The hangover biting more than you wanted. She stomped over to the breakfast table and filled her glass, then paused before adding another splash of alcohol.

“What did I do?” Dean quipped. “Oh, let me see–,” and he proceeded, in great self-deprecating detail about stuffing the angel inside of Sam, kicking Castiel to the curb and getting Kevin killed. “Oh, and I slept with a porn star, former, or retired, after—" a gesture between himself and CC clarified what he meant.

“This isn’t about us.” CC huffed, sitting on the opposite bed with her heels planted on the floor, facing him at a right angle. “Dean, you have got to stop making deals with the next monster that holds Sam or Cas, or anybody over your head.”

“You know it’s not that simple,” he grunted. “I have to take care of Sam. And Cas? He’s died for me, and Sam. Now with Kevin, I just need a win. Ya know?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Fucking away sadness sounds great, but this is not going to help, not really.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean groaned, crawling off his bed for another drink.

“So, this angel, Gadreel? Was he really helping Sam?” You asked now, letting CC take a breather from her sass.

“I think so, I mean, Sam’s not dead. But he’s not a hundred percent either. Those trials were no joke.” Dean shrugged, tossing a pillow to the foot of his bed to lie on his stomach.

“How are you going to find him?”

“Well, angels can only inhabit some humans; they need strong vessels. They also need willing ones. If I find the guy that let him in, in the first place, then I might be able to end him.”

He was saying things that both you and Chloe knew better than he could, but you played along. “The guy from New York?”

Dean nodded, flipping on the television. You let him scan the available channels as you finished CC’s drink. He had gotten himself a plan, even if he had nearly poisoned himself to do it. When you came back from the bathroom a half hour later, he was sleeping, his glass still balanced on the dark patterned comforter. You sighed down at him, the peaceful façade a reprieve from his surly drunkenness. You put the cup back beside the bottle and grabbed the extra blanket from atop the coat rack and draped it over him. You didn’t want to move him, but some base human reasoning fueled the moment of gentle care.

With a fresh round of alcohol flowing through your system and Chloe biting her cheek from her silencing earlier, you climbed into the other bed, remote in hand. There was nothing on, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave, to find another case, to walk away from him. Not now. If this was being human, perhaps it wasn’t all bad, boring and emotionally uncomfortable, but not, well, Hell. So, you sat, keeping the light on until her body’s exhaustion pooled over into your resolve.

The morning came quickly, the sounds of Dean showering pulled at the stuffing in your head. You kept hidden beneath the pillows, ignoring all of reality as he got himself ready for the day. When he came back with coffees and pastries, you relented. You had wiggled out of half of her clothing in the night, sleeping in just a tank top, socks and panties. With little self-consciousness, you removed her long, thick limbs from the sheets and lumbered to the thoughtful breakfast.

“Thanks,” you mumbled over your mouthful of Danish.

“No thanks needed,” Dean blew on his coffee, eyebrows furrowed as you plopped back on your bed, legs curling in to sit up. He started to stare, but you paid no mind, the food hitting the primary hunger of your body. “So? Got anywhere you need to be?”

“Always.” You smirked, as he rolled his eyes. He stayed in his seat, eyes roaming over every inch of exposed flesh.

“Why don’t you have any tattoos? Of all people I would have thought you would have some fancy repelling spell work or at least an anti-possession charm, somewhere?”

“You’ve seen it all Dean, there is no more somewhere,” you sipped the coffee carefully, it was ridiculously bitter. Drawing on Chloe’s memories, you continued, “I don’t know, my mom had my ears pierced when I was a baby and it pissed me off when I realized I wasn’t given a choice. So, it’s kind of my rebellion? I mean, our bodies go through a lot, I’m not scared of the pain. Just don’t want one.”

“And the dye jobs?”

“That’s just hunter 101, blend in. I can’t believe you’ve had the same hair cut as long as you have.” You raised an eyebrow.

“Hell, if it aint broke, don’t fix it.” His head lulled to the side as he shrugged. “I have never heard you talk about your mom before, just knew about her from your Granddad.”

“Yeah, well, we both tend to disappoint each other too much.”

“She’s alive?” Dean’s eyes were wide.

“Oh yeah, I doubt anything could do Constance Collins in, she’s going to live forever on pure spite.” You pulled your thick hair up into a messy bun, unwilling to spend ten minutes to make it presentable.

“So, you’re an only child?” Dean continued with the small talk.

“Not sure, no idea on the father side of things, besides that he was white.” You shrugged. “But, pretty much. Lifelong hunter, you basically know the rest.”

Dean stood then, offering the wax coated bag with the last doughnut. Your eyes sparkled up at him as you dug your hand into the crumbs and took the sugar twist. He smiled back, his eyes soft in the morning light. Did he have to be so pretty? Your hand froze as he licked his lips, suddenly very aware of being half naked on a bed, your face fell. You picked at the doughy knot as Dean crumpled the now empty bag and tossed it into the small waste bin.

“Nice shot.”

He fell on the bed, hand rubbing your calf as you kept your eyes on your food.

“I hit a sore subject,” Dean’s voice still held that note of self-flagellation.

“Don’t worry about it, plus, I do like tattoos. Just on somebody else.” You circled back to the beginning, looking into his bedroom eyes with a stirring challenge.

“You gonna finish that?” He nodded to the mass of sugar in your hands. You set it on top of the coffee cup on the nightstand, dusting the residue from your palms onto the floor. And when you turned around, he was there. Lips parted and eyes begging, washing everything away until it was just his mouth on yours. The kiss deepened, you leaned over his lounging form, one of his warm hands on your cheek, the other bent and clinging to your hip. Every pain and annoyance from your hangover melted into the background as you explored Dean’s mouth, as if tasting him for the first time. He was much softer than you imagined. It hurt to be there, finally. Because this was yours and Dean’s first real kiss, even if you were still playing Chloe: it was all in your control.

With the buzzing phone in his pocket, the spell was broken. You pulled apart, his eyes flashed harshly, his hand still heavy on your bare skin.

“Cas?”

Reality always came for hunters in the end.


	9. Mark Your Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe begins to feel the demon inside her meanwhile Dean accepts the Mark of Cain.
> 
> Warnings: Possession and therefore dub!con smut, angry sex, oral sex (male receiving), vaginal sex, spanking, cream pie, voyeurism (sort of), Angst.

**Location: West Newton, Pennsylvania**

Time was never noted until lives were on the line. Then it was seconds and space between her and the victims, distance from her to making the kill shot or whipping her knife across a room. All her life, CC managed to avoid the business week blues and oddly nostalgic rites of passage because she had never been a normal kid. And as an adult, she lived on the schedule of the hunt, traveling and existing outside of the designated 9 to 5 concept of working hours. But now that she was losing chunks of time, every other certainty seemed to be failing her. It happened in moments of intense adrenaline, episodes where she got from one place to another without consciously making the choice to move. Vampires were decapitated, werewolves were shot, and ghosts were burned all with little to no knowledge of her contributions. Until she washed the blood and graveyard dirt from her hands, she hadn’t realized the jobs were done.

Then there was Dean, an hour white-knuckling through interchanges all because she found out Kevin Tran was dead. Because Dean Winchester let an angel infest Sam. What the hell had he been thinking? Then suddenly, nothing. She woke to a stale half eaten doughnut and two unmade beds. Chloe stayed in the motel for another day and night after Dean left, her mind leaving her with bigger and bigger questions and although it was blaringly clear this wasn’t just a particularly nasty hangover. She begrudgingly started to question her stability. Screw genetics.

**January 21, 2014**

Dean was getting to be too predictable, but he was on his own, which meant this rare window of opportunity was not to be ignored. Crowley kept a tail on the girl Dean left at the motel while he found himself a seat at the bar. Always the salesman, he let the juicy details of the penultimate weapon ooze from his mouth. After all the time he spent holed up in their basement, he was going to enjoy the game. All around the mulberry bush, the demon teased the squirrel.

**Pierre, South Dakota**

**February 6, 2014**

“How you doing, Squirt?” CC leaned to look Sam in the eye as they shook hands.

“Good, yeah, well, better,” Sam shrugged.

“Man, I knew you were a magnet for the most extreme, but another Angel possession? That’s not something you forget. My Gran—”

Sam cleared his throat as Dean stalked out of the precinct, notepad still in his hand. Relief evident as the line of questioning was interrupted, “So?”

“Richard Evans, 58, healthy, died while shoveling,” Dean started. “But get this, he was frozen from the inside out.”

“Same as the others,” CC added, not surprised.

“Yes, but he had no beef with anyone. In fact, everyone loved the guy.” They walked to the Impala, CC following to slip into the backseat.

“Okay, let’s start with the widow and then maybe find out more from the other families. Maybe there is a connection the locals missed?” Her voice was smooth and to the point, but Dean tensed as he caught her eyes in the rear view mirror.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Sam agreed. “We have enough going on, between the three of us it should be an easy close.”

“Don’t say that man,” Dean sighed.

“Wait, what else is going on?” Dean and Sam had a silent argument in the front seat as CC watched in mild amusement.

“What Dean doesn’t want to tell you, Chloe, is that he decided to let Crowley convince him to get Marked by Cain. You know, the first murderer,” Sam snipped as Dean drove down the street.

“You’re just jealous I didn’t bring you an autograph, Sammy,” Dean’s deflection fell on deaf ears.

The story unfolded, the gravity of the situation and the unknown effects of the curse tossing you into a demonic tizzy. One the one hand, Crowley was free and ever present in the life of someone you wouldn’t leave be. On the other hand, an ancient primal evil now resided in Dean’s flesh, damning and devious, making you tremble with anticipation. CC was much more affected by the first hand’s affairs. Climbing out of the car, CC quickly caught up to the Winchesters on the sidewalk.

“Dean, do you not fucking listen?! To any of us? I just told you to stop making deals with fucking monsters and what’s the next thing you do? Leave me in a motel to answer your angel buddy’s concerns about Sam and grace tracking, only to follow it up by going on a hunt for an Old Testament villain, WITH the Goddamn King of HELL?!” She had a fair point.

“Alright, enough!” Dean glared at CC before heading into the victim’s house. “Look, you want to chew me out, fine. Not here, not now. We’ve got a case, when we have the time, you know where to find me. For now, zip it, Cease.”

If you had a jaw of your own, you would have been scraping it off the pavement. She had provoked him in a way you hadn’t seen, it sent your every nerve on fire. CC seemed almost as shocked as you were, a cold strip straightened her spine as she gaped back at Dean. He waited, chin hitching at the sudden silence. If he had more to throw at her, he held back, rapping his thick knuckles on the simple front door.

Sam quirked his head, brow pinched, and lips pursed. Even though he seemed to share your (and CC’s) sentiments, you really wanted to smack that look off his face. Luckily for every human involved, the vic’s wife answered the door.

***

Through some subtle hints and piercing glances, Dean ditched Sam for the afternoon. CC felt the heat of her anger and a pull from the power inside him, battle for her will. Some twisted judgement won bringing her to Sam and Dean’s motel room, after intentionally making Dean wait for it. Chloe knocked twice before straightening her shoulders to look him dead in the eye.

Dean’s wide palm rested against the door, barring her from entering. His heavy glare pinned her to the spot, a deep chill ran through her, clawing you awake inside her mind. Heat pinched at her temples, her body reacting as your lust fueled the fire that started within her veins. Dean watched, seeing the strain simmer in her eyes, contracting pupils and breaths giving him all he needed. The Mark was ruddy on his smooth skin, it taunted her; you longed to bite it. The fear elevated her senses as he leaned forward, his body heat hummed a forbidden melody. Menacing and meticulous.

He spoke to the door, his voice low and gravelly, eyes on the over-painted wood grain, “You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t?” she snipped back, head snapping to lock on to Dean’s darkening irises. Chloe regretted it instantly, because his lips were at her eye level instead. Dean snapped his tongue behind his teeth, licking his lips knowingly. She rolled her eyes, impetuous, while his whiskey and grease tinged breath straightened every hair on the back of her neck. She couldn’t hide the shiver, her eyes falling closed as she tried to roll the tension from her shoulders.

His amusement rumbled in his chest, the arrogance spreading her frustration across her face.

“But you want to.” Dean finished, looking down at her with a mix of playfulness and an unnamable glint.

“I’m not the only one,” she whispered once Dean’s warm lips fell on the gentle slope of her neck. He rocked his hips into her side, a hearty affirmation.

‘Bitch, do you hear yourself?!’ you balked. If she didn’t keep it together, you were taking over, this wasn’t a game. Her pornographic sigh brought you back to the surface, finding his hands now gripping her waist firmly as her hands worked his belt. In a frenzy of unfastening and some scrapping of nails, they freed each other from their clothing. She ached with want and as he led her down to the perfectly made bed, you took hold, locking her away with a single thought.

Everything was impossibly soft, except him. Dean was bulk and angles, hidden behind the smoothest of skin. His length dug into your stomach and as you felt him whole and ready in your hands at last, a visceral growl escaped your lips. He shifted, gripping your collar bone as his mouth popped open letting out the sweetest of gasps. You watched him hungrily, taking in each subtle reaction as you stroked him.

As much as you loved the show, it was time to find your seat. With a brush of your lips over his, you slid down his body, nails of your free hand leaving a delicious path down Dean’s heaving chest, stopping at his flat, yet soft stomach. Your knees fell beside his feet, and he finally opened his eyes to look down at you. His desire and reverence twisted in your gut, in attempt at averting them completely: you shoved down those thoughts that bordered on feelings.

You braced yourself against his thigh and began to drag your tongue from base to tip of his pulsing cock. When Dean hissed you repeated the motion, soon his massive hands were in your hair, pulling you closer without ceremony. You dragged your teeth over the path you had laid, and he loosened his hold, palms finding their way to rest on your shoulders, heavy and warm. You hummed in satisfaction and got to work.

His swollen head offered you a sample of his flavor, taking it with your tongue as your lips encased him.

***

Dean was trying to stay upright, his toes curled, digging into the floorboards as Chloe’s mouth pulled him into pure bliss. Her lips were strong and tongue sinful, lapping at the broad veins and channel along the underside of his dick. Her rough hand was nibble, cupping his sack with each bob of her head. Just as he slowly began to roll his hips to add to her rhythm, the softness of her mouth gave way to the burning drag of teeth, Dean pushed off reflexively. Her tongue tsking against her traitorous incisors.

She fell back on her heals, a menacing smirk settled on her face and she spread her legs wide. Fuck.

***

His eyes flashed, taking in your challenge, while staling along the glistening entrance you teased him with. Dean visibly swallowed, looked to the ceiling and swore beneath his breath.

“On the bed,” you said plainly, standing as he gathered himself. His distrust only deepened your resolve. He pursed his lips and looked down at you, in a jarring motion a firm arm pinned you to his chest.

It came out as a rumble against your ear, “Ladies first.”

Your neck rolled, exposing your throat to his hot mouth, body instinctively submitting to him, despite your every effort to control the situation. He took the opening and sucked forcefully against the sensitive muscles. He backed you into the bed, thighs hitting the mattress top and suddenly he was gone, releasing the vice like grip of his lips and his roaming hands in a calculated gesture. It was his turn to taunt you, he rubbed his long and reddened member as you debated your next move.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Dean moaned, want and frustration burning you with a mossy glare.

“Hey, you’re the one jacking off while there is a pussy wet and waiting right here,” you snapped, turning your back to him, climbing on to the bed. He didn’t disappoint. Dean grabbed your hips so fast you lost your breath. He bent you further, nipples brushing against the stiff comforter. His hand connected with your ass cheek as the opposite hand rolled his cock over your folds.

“Now that’s what I like to see,” his voice a delicious bark, as he placed his head at your aching entrance. Suddenly he thrust through, stopping before he sighed, “better than promised.”

Dean was large and forceful, every entry of his impressive length, stretching and working you from the inside out. He perched one leg on the bed behind your thigh, holding you down on the small of your back. The pressure grew as his weight pinned you in place. You melted into the fabric, the pleasure simmered in you as he hit his target over and over again. You moaned against the chill in the air, your exposed shoulders tingling against the fire that Dean stoked within you. Every sensation built on the last, your walls shook against him and Dean muttered his appreciation.

“That’s my girl,” Dean’s voice dropped into a groan as you pushed back, trying to reassert yourself. He pounded harder, his powerful hips slamming into your ass, his nuts slapping against your clit in the most audible of ways. The fluttering started before you felt the rush and soon you had fallen over the edge.

“Deeeeeeeeeaaannnnn-,” you warned, but it was too late. You clamped down on him, frozen in place. Unable to meet his ministrations or try to gain the upper hand. You had finished first, leaving him the self-righteous victor.

“That’s it, baby, you like that?” Dean’s fingertips dug into your side while his thumb bruised your ass, the bite of his short nails adding to the heat between your legs. “You’re not done here. Stay with me, C.C.”

Right, Chloe.

That’s who he was fucking, not you, not really. The maddening realization flooded you and you locked your arms, pushing him back on two feet. His cock twitched inside your core as he heaved with strain. With both feet back on the ground, you used only her natural upper body strength to balance against the bed, countering his every thrust. You fucked him back and the motion turned violent, your ass tender and clit throbbing with it all.

He landed a heavy palm on your unmarked cheek, clenching the meat between his thick fingers. You felt her clawing at your control, her name bringing her back to the forefront of her own thoughts. You grinned at her helplessness, letting her feel the burn of his cock inside your shared cunt, but not letting her see or speak. Not yet. You felt your eyes blacken as Dean huffed and let out a sob like moan.

“Fuhhhhhh-,” he almost whimpered, and as his hips locked you felt his finish coat your insides. It was thick and heady, you pitched up on your tip toes, his strong thumbs pulling your cheeks apart to watch his seed spill around his softening shaft. “Damn, that pussy takes me so good.”

You whined once he pulled completely out, the emptiness only sated by the juiciness of his spendings. You fell forward on to the bed, reveling in every spot he had marked and abused. She was going to be sore and you owed him for the reminders. His broad chest hovered above your back, his body heat radiating against your nakedness. His mouth was tender and soft, a telltale contrast to the beast you had just wrestled.

“Told ya,” you could feel his smirk against your skin.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” His chin rested on your shoulder, his face flush against your curtain of hair that had come lose.

“Good call, Tweedle Dean,” you quipped, clenching as he tickled your sides. Falling against him and the pillows, you kissed. It was short and almost timid after everything. But, all too soon he was excusing himself to shower, while you refused to move. Reveling in the freedom and the power shutting her way had granted you. She enjoyed it, loved the feel of watching him fuck her without being the one participating. It was a narcissistic form of voyeurism, you knew as well as she did. But you had also let her into your own thoughts.

Sharing on that level was dangerous. And so, you spent the remainder of the afternoon repainting her memories, reliving the events in her mind added another layer of arousal between your thighs. With eyes closed and mouth open, you feigned sleep, feeling his gaze the moment he left the bathroom. You thought of all the ways he would take you next, but her mental and physical exhaustion won out, and you let her slumber wash over you both.

Once Dean was cleaned and ready to get back to the case, he left. Meeting an annoyed Sam at the bar they had run into Chloe at the night before. He couldn’t keep the smug look from his face and Sam couldn’t keep the disapproval off of his.  
*^*


	10. The Prick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: We start with a flashback and some insight into Chloe’s family. The rest is nearly all needless sexy times. Dates are listed to keep us in line with season 9 air dates. Please ask if anything doesn’t make sense! xoxo Stu
> 
> Warnings: racial tension, cruel metaphor, SMUT: oral (both), vaginal, minor anal play, mental health.

**June 29, 1999**

**Montana Hwy 566**

Dean leaned back over the seat to slip the hairpin into Sam’s hair as he narc-ed out tucked against the window. John drove with the front windows down, it was amazing Sam could sleep with the cacophony of gushing air, even if it was a soothingly warm draft. John cleared his throat, “How much farther?”

“Uh, right, well the turn off should be only a few more miles, but there won’t be any signs out here,” Dean squinted at the map, following the route with a pen he had been chewing on.

“A few?”

“Less than ten and more than two.”

“If we cross the border, we will be trespassing and I do not want to disrespect these people, Dean.” John wasn’t angry, but a nervousness made him louder than necessary. Dean nodded and glanced around them in the afternoon sunshine, watching for the turn before running into the reservation’s boundary lines. It was three minutes and a shifting wind before they spotted it, they shared a satisfied look and a nearly matching grin before they took the dirt path that led off the two-lane road. The Impala’s tires crunched the small patches of gravel as they slowed before a simple house, not quite a cabin, not quite a shack.

“Wait here with Sammy, I’ll let him know we’re here.”

Dean rocked back in the passenger seat, leaning against the door as he rested his eyes. There were no naps for navigators in the Winchester family. He heard the growl of a small engine approach, thinking little of it until there was a pounding on the roof of the car above his head.

“Who the hell are you?!” The voice demanded, Dean froze as Sam groaned awake behind him. Dean squinted as the girl’s face came into focus, a small motorcycle helmet still strapped to her chin. She couldn’t be much younger than he was and she was, what he would later define as ‘angry hot’.

“Uh, we’re the Winchesters, my dad’s,” Sam started, looking around at where they had stopped. “You’re a—"

“If you say Indian, I’m going to punch you where you sit, dumb ass,” she threatened.

“I was going to say girl, myself,” Dean snipped. His face jolted with the force of her backhand.

“Okay, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, what are you doing at my Grandfather’s in the first place,” her uncanny pale eyes pierced daggers at them. Sam and Dean shared a look before crawling out of the car, letting this chick know who she was messing with. Sam had just hit a growth spurt and he was closing in on Dean and John in height. The guard dog seemed unimpressed with their size, arms still crossed over her chest as she waited for their answers, she settled between them and the humble home.

“We’re here for a hunt, my dad said your grandpa is someone he needed to check in with before we get on our way,” Dean muttered, clicking his lips and nodding at the adults as they joined them.

The older men’s voices wafted to the tense threesome, her grandfather called out in the Cheyenne language, Tsėhésenėstsestȯtse, leaving the visitors in suspense. Whatever he said made the girl relax, but her eyes never left the two brothers.

“So, what are we hunting?” she asked with a gentle crook of her eyebrows.

“Wait, we?!” Dean looked to John on the porch, frustration growing.

“Got a whole pack to take out, need the extra hands.” John said simply.

“Chloe, get these boys some weapons, they’re going to need them,” her granddad’s voice was deep and resonating, an unquestionable request.

***

“How long has her mother been gone?” John asked from the breakfast table, eyes falling on Chloe sleeping on the recliner, a large bandage on her forearm and dried blood matting her hair.

“Three years, but Constance never stayed put. And I didn’t ask her to.” Old Man Collins replied. He never corrected anyone from the moniker, leaving the nickname to accompany the stories of his hunts.

“Well, me and my boys will be out of your hair before long. Can’t let them get too attached. She’s a pretty thing,” John reassured him.

“I’d like to see your boys try something,” his voice held no laughter. “Besides, girl’s a mule. Not much to worry about.” John nodded, understanding the double meaning too well. “What has you so scared, John?”

“There’s something I need to ask you, but I don’t want to be rude, sir.” The marine straightened, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Do you still have contact with the angel?”

Old Man Collins stared at the ragged hunter, dark eyes searching for hope in a damned world. He shifted in his seat and looked out over the kitchen sink to the brightening morning light. “After my wife bared me my daughter, I thought the possibility of life’s miracles was endless. But I was a younger man and I didn’t yet know of the darker things. The demons came for her and my child, though the angel had left her once our Constance was born. The things of Heaven and Hell are not mine to tell you John. You know already. Stop searching for a solution beyond man, because both sides take from us in the end.”

Dean woke just after dawn, his right eye swollen closed and throbbing. He found his dad packing up the trunk of the Impala. “Get Sam and clean up your gear. Time to move on.”

“But, Dad, we’re pretty banged up. Probably should lay low for a few days.”

John stood, watching Dean lick his split lip and glance back at the house. “We’ve out stayed our welcome, son. Pack it up.”

Dean dragged Sam from the pullout, stripping the sheets before tucking away the flimsy mattress. They shook the Old Man’s hand and thanked him for their lodging. CC had left to dress in private. Dean circled her bike outside and before John could notice, he slipped a small scrap of paper in the saddle bag. She watched him from the single bedroom window, possessiveness fell away to curiosity as she watched them drive away.

**February 16, 2014**

**A Demon Outpost, Louisiana**

Crowley stared at his minion in mild disbelief.

“Sir?”

“She’s just hunting? What kind of mockery is this?” Crowley’s thoughts drifted as the demon recited the known whereabouts of the demon that rode Chloe Collins and the clearly lacking details when she was within the Winchesters’ presences. He reasoned it out, she wasn’t on Abaddon’s radar, she couldn’t be. What was this about? What was her angle?

“—then she drove to”

“Enough,” Crowley interrupted, earning a few appreciatively sighs from the surrounding demons. “While your account is thrilling, in the same vein as nature documentaries and tax law reform, I’m going to stop you there.”

The demon shifted and swallowed before closing his notebook to watch his King’s response. When none came, the atmosphere shifted. After an uncomfortable five minutes, he continued, “Sir, should I return to my detail?”

Crowley shifted his jaw and sighed. “No need. No, it’s time I speak to this renegade myself. Give her a chance to come clean or clean her out.”

**The Bunker**

**February 18, 2014**

“On your knees.”

As if you had no choice in the matter, a thoughtless reaction followed: you sank to the ground. It was there below his semi-surprised gaze that a page turned in your mind with the shuttering of your core. There was a power about him that seemed off and oddly comforting at the same time. It all clicked as he lingered on the other side of the room, apart from and above you, this was the Dean you remembered, the Dean of your past. Your torturer.

You had CC waiting for the Winchesters at the garage entrance to the Bunker for over an hour. They had returned from back to back hunts, still ornery as hell with one another. The way Dean’s eyes fell over her body made you shiver despite the extra layers beneath her jeans and jacket, the Kansas winter had been bearable, but the trek back from Montana hadn’t been. Sam gave you a quirk of his lips and a tight nod before storming down the hall to his room. Without a word or welcome, your evening had begun.

You watched Dean carefully, the light shifted on his face as he moved closer, the shadows hid the clenching of his jaw. The mesmerizing fear pinned you between lust and panic. Dean strolled on his strong legs, bowed and distracting in his faded jeans.

“I knew you were a good girl, despite your smart mouth.” Dean cooed at you, the deep notes of his words sent shivers over your tense body. “You going to do what you’re told, CC?”

Your chin shot out instinctively, “It depends if I like what you tell.”

Dean’s lips twitched, fighting back his amusement. “Well, how about I tell you what I want then? What I want, is to leave you bent over and crying for more. What I want is to fuck you six ways from Sunday. What I want,” Dean’s voice lowered as he approached your expectant face. His arousal pitching against his pants as your eyes lingered on the straining denim, his rough hand reached down to palm his dick. “to fill you up and feel that tight throat on my cock.

Now I know that is something you like, and even if I didn’t, the way you are rubbing your thighs together is a helluva tell, Cease. Just how hungry are you for it?” He bit his tongue with a flash to his darkened eyes. “So, let’s stop playing and how ‘bout you just open up for me?”

Without a word, your hands snaked up his thighs, your teeth gnawed at your bottom lip to keep from gesticulating how much his words got to you. How much you wanted to feel him, everywhere. How empty you felt without his cock, his thick fingers, his tongue.

You tossed your hair over your shoulder, letting the now familiar weight keep you just out of reach, giving your hands room to work Dean’s fly open. With a full handed grab of his delicious ass and a stern grunt from Dean, you worked his jeans and boxers down his legs, setting him free. Your mouth ready to remedy the situation. You started stroking the straining shaft, watching as his eyelashes fluttered before he could compose himself. You lay her stern lips over the swollen tip, massaging the flesh while gently lapping at the tiny slit. The taste reminding you of his watchful glare and before he could demand more, you took him deeply.

“Atta girl,” he grunted, patting the wisps of hair out of your eyes. “Look at me, you like that don’t ya?” You swallowed, catching him just before gagging over the way he stretched your throat. You hummed in response, shallowly dipping your jaw, working his head against your depths. His hand trailed down until his thumb pinched at the hinge of your jaw and growled, “relax for me.”

Your eyes rolled back at the command, your core clenching as your mouth relinquished control. Dean snapped his hips quickly, the sensation of being stuffed overwhelming you as he kept your head steady. You worked to keep from gagging as he fucked you into a drooling mess. You held his shirt up, helping him now that his hands were busy, which brought his lust creased eyes back onto yours. When he sped up, you began swallowing in quick succession, silently begging his finish forth.

He groaned, suddenly holding you both still, except the gentle pull of your tongue and soft palate against his quaking cock. You drank him down desperately, knowing you would be rewarded, soon enough. Dean snarled as you released him, the cold air stinging along his blood hot spit drenched member. You licked your lips as you stood, dragging yourself up by the hem of his shirts. Dean kept your face in the palm of his hand before pulling you in for a teeth clashing kiss.

“Get your clothes off and get comfortable,” Dean purred in your ear. “I’ll be right back.” He fixed his pants and left you alone in his room without a second thought.

***

_Dean marched into the library, bee lining to the drink cart and the whiskey, most importantly the whiskey. He bit back the sting as he stared at the wall, the heat in his body coming out in waves. He knew he had signed on for something big when he took the Mark from Cain, but he hadn’t realized the other things he had put on his plate along the way. CC fell to her knees like a damn dream, her mouth soft and tight, his skin still sung with the electricity of his orgasm. What the hell were they anyway?_

_He had no fucking clue, but what he did know was that he was going to bury himself between her thighs for a few hours and forget about Angels, Demons, his brother’s resentment and Biblical branding for a good long while. He pinched another glass between his fingers and clutched the decanter as he headed back to his room and the promise of more of her distraction._

***

The heat from his mouth puckered your skin as Dean ghosted his lips over your chest. Your nipples pearled, dark, rich targets against tan skin. His eyes sparkled as he jostled each breast, appreciating the weight in his calloused hands. Just as you were about to whimper, he latched on, strong tongue stroking the peaked flesh and sending spirals through every nerve, each exploding the delicious fuses of your center. Walls fluttering as the want pooled in anticipation.

“Up you go, Cease,” Dean reached a hand around your waist, pulling you up as he settled on his knees between your thighs. He held you firmly to his chest as he inched you back against the headboard, once more his mouth found your nipple, the scruff teasing the soft skin as he nuzzled his way into the heat of your cleavage. Your back arched as you shimmied for him, letting the weight off your thighs and backwards onto the wall.

With his newly freed hand, Dean stroked himself against your damp folds, teasing your clit before sinking lower. Your hands found his hair as he perched you atop his dick. You bit your bottom lip and sunk down, feeling the heavy stretch of his size from the luscious new angle. Your legs moved without thought, locking around his waist as he thrust into you. Your back hit the wall, jarring your eyes open.

“Sorry,” Dean whispered, rubbing your thigh.

“Don’t be,” you panted, rolling your hips to meet him. And then he resurfaced, the beast who took your throat and left you gasping. He bucked into you, thudding you repeatedly against the wall, as he watched each twitch and quake of your countless curves. His hand snaked up your side, his wide palm holding firmly against your breast bone. He thrust himself into a fever, the tension rolling off him and tightening every pull of your core. With his thick thighs, Dean fucked you upright, before he lost himself again, he let you fall. Sliding you mindlessly down onto the pillows, he backed away.

The withdrawal of his throbbing length sent you shaking. Desperate, you searched him out, finding him gasping, kicking out each leg from the strain. Before you could meet his lips, he rolled you back, pulling your knees out from under you, and hooking them strategically over his shoulders before winking up at you. A cold stream of air hit your mound, dragging from clit to ass and back again. When Dean’s tongue touched you, it was nothing like you had experienced in a human body, before or after damnation.

He stroked and lapped up your juices, tasting and teasing you. His thick digits found your swollen entrance, prodding until he hooked them just so, nearly causing you to sit up and suffocate him properly. With devilish eyes he watched you watch him eat you sloppy. Moaning with pleasure, his pink lips pursed and pulled against your heated flesh. Paying special attention to your throbbing bundle Dean provided not one, but two orgasms for you before he let you catch your breath.

“That’s it, this sweet pussy is going to ruin me,” Dean grumbled, nuzzling against your folds before sliding away at last.

He wiped his face on the nearest pillow before pulling you to his chest, the tremors racking you from the inside out. He palmed your thigh, pulling your leg over his waist before sinking inside you once more, his shaft stiff and almost cool to the touch from the heat of your weeping lips. He rocked into you as your body called him deeper, his want covered face buried in your neck. Dean took his time, a lone finger stroking your ass as he fucked you until you were both drunk and dizzy. Before he could finish, you came for a third time, clinging to him, as hot, treacherous tears stung your eyes. Everything exploded in and around you as he filled you at last, a silent promise on a moonless night.

***

Chloe woke with a start, Dean’s face piercing through her dreams with fear tinged by a dejected understanding. His eyes were dark, and his jaw was set; he was there to hurt her. Now that she gasped in the underground air, the foreign memories still overwhelmed her senses. She needed to get as far away from there as possible. Suddenly a heavy palm rolled over her side, pulling her to his chest. The rough patch of skin on his forearm stung against her hip. The grounding comfort still a surprise after the months long dance of theirs. She exhaled and let her eyes fall back closed. Staring back at her, behind her own lids were a pair of glossy black pools. She swallowed at the blatant truth of no longer being sane.


	11. The Ass's Jaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Dean Winchester x Demon!Reader, x Female Vessel OC, Sam, Crowley and some other demon minions
> 
> Summary: CC can’t come to the phone right now… Crowley gets our reader out in the open. Dean acquires the First Blade. This turns into an episode rewrite, I hope you enjoy how our reader fits into canon! xoxo Stu
> 
> Warnings: Self harm, mental health, possession, blood, “drug” use, violence, murder, sexual harassment, body disposal and a gentle reminder that our reader is a demon.

**February 25, 2014**

**Green Valley, Arizona**

Chloe sat in the bed of her truck, knife held firmly in her hand as she let it hover over her thigh. Her cut off shorts accenting the opportunity as a constant taunt. There, beneath six inches of magically strengthened iron, was her answer. She just needed to slide the edge of the blade over her skin, if she was possessed, she would injure or jolt the demon from her body. If she wasn’t, all she would do is leave a simple cut behind. If her hand would just move closer to piercing her flesh, this could all be over.

With a simple flip of her wrist you began. The soft silver edge split her thigh open like a burst seam. The blood blossoming up and out in a swell of heat and a dull sting, she watched you, paralyzed as another gash opened from her cherished blade. You smirked as the letters merged into the simple word, the surrounding skin reddening with each fresh stroke. The mesmerizing power of inflicting damage inside out causing your eyes to blacken, your mouth pulled into a snarl as you jammed the tip of the knife straight on and into the meat, ending the statement. The mixing of metals at the tip was a punch to the gut, the iron carving away at the latches of your control; you slipped back satisfied but laughing at yourself.

Her consciousness rushed forward to feel each throb of her pulse as she read your message.  
HI.

*^*

**March 5, 2014**

**Another Penthouse Suite**

Crowley didn’t even feel the needle as it left his arm, the rush of human emotions quelled the lust for pain and morphed his perspective. He really didn’t want to break up Dean’s little tryst, it would be so much more satisfying to out the bitch to his face. But these were desperate times and he needed a few more ringers on his side. If he could just figure out what department she had escaped from, perhaps he could exploit her talents as well. If she had any, with demons the odds were less than a crap shoot.

He was going to track her down once he found the First Blade, which he would do after this high ran off. Can’t be doing business with the stink of humanity coursing through your veins. He was a professional, after all. No, he closed his eyes and drifted away in a day dream of smug zingers and disarticulated Abaddon.

**March 18, 2014**

**The Bunker**

**Blade Runners (s9,e16)**

“What do you know about the Men of Letters Massacre of 1958?” Sam stared back at Crowley, who was chained, once again in their dungeon.

“We know Abaddon missed our grandfather and Larry Ganem, was there anybody else?” Dean continued.

“Let me get this straight,” Crowley balked. “You keep me locked up in this closet, ignore my suffering, and then come barging in here and demand my help?”

“More or less, yeah,” Dean agreed.

Crowley looked at Dean and then gaped at Moose. “Did I or did I not keep up my end of the bargain the other night? Quite brilliantly, I might add. We ARE partners and you OWE me!”

After little concession on either part, the brothers caved to the dramatic demon.

“What do you want?” Dean decided it was easier to play along than to argue with Crowley any longer.

Crowley paused a tick, “I wouldn’t turn down more comfortable seating arrangements, a few nips of Scotch, and—” His eyes glinted as he drew out his final request. Dean and Sam raised their eyebrows, fueling his theatrics. “This is paramount. I want Dean’s, how should I put it? Lady friend? To accompany us.”

“Not happening,” Dean interjected flatly.

“Wait, Dean, CC would be there as backup. If Abaddon’s closing in, we could use all the help we could get, especially from someone we can depend on,” Sam grimaced at Crowley’s smug face, he felt dirty agreeing with the crumbling King of Hell.

“Moose is making sense, Dean,” Crowley purred. “Come now, let me meet your pet.”

“No!” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, “Look, she booked it last time she knew you were here. She was working with Kevin and the moment you started your belly-aching she was out the door. No, Cease doesn’t deal with this level of crap. Not like us.”

“Shame, really,” Crowley leaned his head back and nestled into the creaky old chair. “I’d thought we had a lot in common, both always getting screwed by the mistakes that are the Winchesters and all.”

Dean stomped forward, just to have Sam pull him back from punching Crowley. When they were out of what they estimated to be earshot, Sam continued, “Look, man, I don’t like it either, but CC’s tough. Just call her, she can always say no.”

Dean returned ten minutes later with a calculated glint in his eye, Sam hadn’t moved from his perch outside of the Devil’s Trap.

“So?”

“She’s about four hours out,” Dean gave Crowley a cold curl of his lip. “If you so as much as look at her wrong, I’m going to let her take it out of your hide herself, you hear me?”

“You give all your mates the possessive alpha male monologue or do I threaten your manhood, Squirrel?” Crowley tutted. “Honestly! I think you underestimate just how charming I can be.”

Sam pursed his lips and spun on his heel while Dean sauntered forward. “Now what was that you were saying about seating arrangements?”

Crowley swallowed at the menace in Dean’s voice, careful to keep his thoughts to himself as the boys set up a suitable Queen Anne’s Wing-back for him in the Library, among the other amenities. After an hour of digging through records, they managed to get real intel out of Crowley. Dean naively hoped that their progress would keep CC out of the hunt for the First Blade, but a demon never forgets.

“Call your little huntress, tell her to meet us there,” Crowley’s dark eyes mocked Dean as he watched Dean as he shoved Crowley’s head into the backseat of the Impala.

*^*

_Chloe walked in a hazy forest, the underbrush crunching beneath her boots. She didn’t know if she was tracking or hiding, she just knew she had to keep moving. The sky above was a muted gray with streaks of purple, twilight was approaching, and she needed to find cover. Slowly she realized she had lost her lead with the snapping of twigs somewhere behind her. The farther she journeyed, the more certain she knew what was chasing her and the panic grew. She could keep running, she could stop and fight or she could go quietly. Just when she had made her choice the woods parted before her, revealing her grandfather’s cabin and her old bike topped with a shiny new helmet waiting for her. It didn’t matter, the thing that was chasing her didn’t need transportation, but the sight of home had made her pause long enough to end the game once and for all._

*^*

You flew down the highway with the windows open, letting the winter air bite against your bare arms. Chloe was gone, hiding in some memory and you had been buzzing on the power of absolute control. The phone hummed from underneath her leather jacket beside you and you slid the call open before turning down the radio.

There was no way out of this invitation. In fact, it may have been easier to avoid a summoning spell than Dean telling you that Crowley wanted to meet CC. The King, however incapacitated, requested your presence. It was a death sentence, really, either now or later. The loyalty to the throne may not have been your motivation, but its illusion may be your salvation. That with Dean and Sam on your side, gave you enough confidence to answer it readily. Or maybe you were still a masochist this side of the Pit. Go big or go home. You gathered what little belongings you had back at your motel and climbed back into the truck. You hadn’t quite been able to keep Lebanon far enough away.

*^*

“Well, well, well,” Crowley stood alone beside the Impala. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

You remained in the driver’s seat and peered from the window. “Sir,” you nodded, looking around for either Winchester.

“Your boy toy and his oversized sidekick are fine, Y/N. They’re just chasing down an acquisition for me, sporting lads that they are” Crowley oversold. “Come now, let me look at you, Love.”

You hadn’t heard your name in what seemed like forever, an Earth year at least, it was jarring to be addressed by someone so important so intimately. Your overconfidence in your safety was shaken by the sudden solitude. The glint of spelled handcuffs at his wrists gave the final push which brought you out to stand in a seemingly vacant field, two feet from the King of Hell.

“So, Y/N, Darling, what are you doing topside and riding a hunter of all things?” Crowley tutted, thinking your vessel below demon-kind, sending your defenses back up. You looked down at CC’s legs and arms, flexing the muscles beneath her gentle curves before meeting his eye again.

“It was convenient and proved knowledgeable in the long run,” you shrugged, a thousand words passing between your eyes and Crowley’s.

“What of the state of things these days, hmmm? Abaddon and her scare tactics, a demon really needs to keep their friends close,” Crowley was getting to his point.

You knew there were darker reasons Crowley had coaxed you off the road, but there was no good response to a turf battle you had been avoiding. His dark eyes watched knowingly as you tried to conceal your uneasiness. But before you could satisfactorily reply, Sam stumbled out of the nearby trees.

“Magnus has Dean,” he bellowed before realizing you were there. “CC, hi, uh, Magnus is a collector, I think he wants Dean for his zoo.”

“Well, there are worse mugs to put on display,” Crowley muttered as Sam replied in an exasperated face. Sam stormed over to the trunk of the Impala and began digging while Crowley began working him over. You hadn’t spent much time alone with Sam since the whole Angel fiasco, but you knew when he was annoyed. Crowley was playing dumb, yet was still able to hit all his buttons, it was hard not to laugh at them both.

“You’re gonna need another set of hands when you get in there, unless you think Dean’s gonna want little miss priss over here breaking a nail.”

“Thanks, pass,” Sam snapped.

“Hey, at least he knows where I stand,” you interrupted, the low blow stomping out your amusement in less than two breaths.

“Does he?” Crowley grinned over the trunk lid at you.

“Yeah, I do,” Sam countered. “But he’s got a point. Dean wouldn’t want me dragging you into this, CC, this guy has got a spell for everything.”

“He’s human, right?”

“I think so, a witch-like un-aging human, but yeah I guess,” Sam continued rifling through his files.

“Well, if he’s human, he can die,” you surmised. What you didn’t say was that you wanted to be the one to do it, after snatching Dean for his own sick entertainment.

“I’ll remind you, both, that I am the one who flushed the lout Gadreel out of Sam’s noggin. So! Lately, Big Boy, I’ve seen more playing time than you.”

“Crowley, will you please, shut, the hell, up?”

Crowley shoved his tongue in his cheek and sauntered over to your side of the Impala, he nodded to the woods. You didn’t want to do this, not here or now, especially since you knew it would do little to help Dean. But you followed the King about thirty paces until Sam was out of earshot.

“You care about him, is that it?”

You didn’t respond, crossing your arms over your chest, listening in mild annoyance.

“Fine, be stubborn, but you’re still just a bottom dwelling demon in a mediocre meat suit. I have the juice to stop the sorcerer, now, are you going to help me convince the not-so-Jolly Green over there or are you going to stomp your feet and prove yourself a petulant human?”

You didn’t have to convince Sam in the end. Necessity was the mother of invention and the need of the hour was ingredients.

“I did good, eh, Moose?” Crowley pandered once Sam had prepared the spell, “everything on the list. You’re welcome.”

“Remember, stay close, do what I say, and shut the hell up.”

“I’m growing on you, aren’t I?” Crowley stood between you and Sam as Sam started the chant. Crowley’s voice was pathetic and needy. You knew he was off his game, but the fishing for approval was almost painful to watch, and especially suspicious. As the entryway blazed to life before you, Crowley turned and waved, blasting you backwards ten yards.

“Be a dear and wait in the car?” His voice taunted as they disappeared in the night.

*^*

Dean knew he needed to hold out for Sammy and CC to come through with the prison break. Crowley, well, Crowley was a long shot, but he could be tapped if Sam got desperate. What had they gotten into with this guy, the Men of Letters really gave this nutjob too much knowledge for their own good, didn’t they?

Dishonored and forgotten wasn’t enough of a punishment for Cuthbert “Magnus” Sinclair. This guy needed to be put down, once and for all. So, Dean played along, giving him the illusion of control until Dean had his back up squad on the board.

*^*

You could smell them before you heard them, demons. You spun CC’s knife in your hand and sunk into the cover of some nearby bushes. If you smelled them in a pack, one or more of them would be able to sniff out you and Crowley before long. You circled the invisible fortress, spreading your trail and gaining eyes on them. Over a five-minute wait, three stooges barged into the clearing, glaring at the abandoned vehicles.

“Look-e here, the Douche-chester mobile,” a lanky one drawled.

“Christ, she has us tailing after those two for this blade?”

“We woulda been here first, if you hadn’ta stopped to beat them cops, Morris,” the lanky one was apparently in charge.

They continued on, arguing and muttering about their boss, but they never said her name. It wasn’t like they were being cautious to mask their identities. They must have truly feared her if they didn’t utter her name aloud. Once they started in on the Impala, your eyes blazed black, the rage simmering like water beneath the lid of your skin. Eventually they spread out. Which sped up the chances of them finding and following your trail. Slowly you climbed into a low tree, letting their stomping feet cover the sounds of your efforts.

“So, what’s Crowley doin’ wit the Winchesters?”

“Do I look like his secretary, man, I don’t know. But it can’t be good. They are always getting into Hell’s business. You’d think if they wanted the job Sam would have demon-ed up and not put Lucifer back in the Cage.”

“Righteous little Ken Dolls would be real nice to play with though,” a voice like cracked ice spoke for the first time. The third demon was female, and she was much more torture-oriented than the mission required.

“Tommy, there aint no way of gettin’ in ta this vault,” Morris was now ten feet from the trunk of your tree, all any of them had to do was turn and look up and you were screwed.

Fighting against the compulsive breathing of your vessel, you waited. You slid to the farthest weight-bearing spot of the branch, aiming to get within dropping distance. With a calculated toss, you lobbed your knife holster towards the cars, the sound forced the three demon’s heads to snap to attention. In an instant they took off allowing you to leap from your perch and crash onto Tommy, the leader and the last of the pack. With your knife handle firmly in your mouth, you worked to cover his mouth.

The iron and silver blade sunk into his vessel with a satisfying slice, he spasmed against your hold. Once you knew he was weak enough, you removed your hand, letting him smoke out from the decimated corpse. The woman’s and Morris’s voices called back, both confused and cowardly. You wiped the dead man’s blood on the thigh of your jeans and stalked back to the entrance of Magnus’s hiding place.

Amazingly, your gun was still tight against the small of your back, but its weight left little comfort when you were dealing with your own kind. You threw your voice channeling Tommy’s voice, taunting them as you crouched beside your truck, “Morris, get your ass over here and help me already.”

“What’s he want now,” the tall man muttered, stomping back to where you’d left the body.

“Don’t know, don’t care, but you have fun with that,” she snipped, walking backwards with a mocking wave. Once she was alone in the clearing you made your move.

“Hey,” you greeted her, pulling her away from her mutilation of the Impala’s paint job.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“No one of consequence,” you sighed, whipping your knife into her chest, it was two inches up and to the left from where you hoped, but it still froze her in place before her face was forced into a mask of rage.

“Fucking bitch!” She screamed, cutting your window of opportunity down. You charged her, the vessel was tiny compared to CC, your arms and legs reaching her before she could swing back. You threw her to the ground, her boot catching your stomach as she tried to will you off of her. Then you smiled down and twisted the knife, dragging the iron face across her chest in blistering strokes. The skin split bloodless, falling open like a burst bag of flour, the body that housed her was long dead. Muscles, fat and ribs exposed and ragged as she finally escaped through the yellowing lips.

Morris’s strong hands found you before you could enjoy your handy work, one clamped fiercely on your neck while the other hoisted you up by your thigh. Your knife fell from your hand as he had pinned your arm at an awful angle by way of the throat-crushing.

“One of Crowley’s bitches, eh?” He inhaled the scent of your hair. “Didn’t know the ol’ dog liked the chubby’uns. Can’t blame him, really.”

His hand roamed lower and you pushed back against him, trying to wrestle free. “Yeah, that’s it, Baby. Let me feel that fat ass.” You wanted to vomit, but the fingers bruising your throat would have stopped you, if you got that far. You started to panic, it was the middle of the night and you were completely alone; Chloe wasn’t even helping fight this sick fuck off of her. “Could do wit out that pistol ‘tween us though.”

“Why?” You struggled to speak, “my gun make you, insec-c-c—c.” He tightened his hold, crushing Chloe’s windpipe. As his spindly fingers started to undo your pants, you bent forward, lifting his feet out from behind him and slammed his face against the truck’s side view mirror, breaking his grasp of your throat. You coughed and drew sweet air back into her lungs, she was going to be banged up and your antics weren’t exactly helping that fact. You stomped on his foot and shoved him back against the truck, breaking his last hold on you. You stumbled forward, snatching the knife and quickly spinning to face him. His stance was wide, hoping from foot to foot as you inched closer, he grinned suddenly, the barrel of CC’s gun pointed square at your chest.

“Nice vessel you’ve got, sister, be a shame to muddy it up,” Morris taunted. You didn’t know how it came to mind, but suddenly you smoked out of Chloe’s mouth and straight down his shocked jaw. You hadn’t had a different vessel in months and never an already possessed one. But you found him quickly, blanketing his senses and twisting his essence into thin useless strands, like putty. When you felt him trying to leave you shoved him further back, bringing him inside the dead brain of his vessel and wallowing in the emptiness. Just when you thought he was too tired to keep fighting, you raised his hand and put a bullet in his temple.

“So much for this vessel,” you taunted before leaving him in the un-camouflageable husk.

Sure, he could have tried the same thing with CC, but you had scared him shitless. He shot off after his useless friends, like dogs with their tales between their legs. Unfortunately, those bitches would undoubtedly head home to Abaddon, with your treachery bursting from their lips. There was no hiding from Hell after this.

Once you were back inside Chloe, having righted her weapons and fixed her pants, you started hauling bodies. It was dawn before you had them all salted and stacked on a pyre two hundred yards north from the trail to the old Man of Letter’s safe house. The smell of burning flesh coated your nose and sunk into your clothes. It reminded you of home, a wistful smile came to your lips as you watched the bodies with a filling satisfaction.

*^*

Dean was doing his best to ignore Crowley’s verbal masturbation as they stomped out of the woods from Magnus’s place. He was terrified of the power the First Blade put in his hand and absolutely impressed with the taste the murder left in his veins. There was no high like it and so he tried to bury it. When they reached the clearing in which he had parked Baby, the sight was enough of a distraction as his stomach dropped.

“No, no. Come on!” Dean strode forward. “What the hell?!”

“That’s sulfur, demons,” Sam hurried to the other side of the car, checking their cargo.

“Uh, Abaddons’,” Dean groaned. “Well, she’s just one jump behind us. Guess she couldn’t find Magnus’s joint either. What about the trunk?”

“Safe,” Sam sighed in satisfaction. “The warding kept them out.”

Crowley finally reached the distraught hunters, confusion or concern heavy on his face.

“Demon mitts all over my Baby,” Dean stewed. “Oh, come on! What, now, they’re keying cars?!”

“Gents?” Crowley broke Sam’s focus, but Dean was too far gone, desperately trying to right the wrongs done to the beloved Impala. “Notice anyone missing?”

“Chloe,” Sam’s face fell to the empty spot of the missing truck.

“CC was here?”

“Yeah, Dean, you were inside overnight.”

“Wait, what?! It was like an hour, hour and a half tops,” Dean groaned.

“Must have been a temporal pocket, like Hell, only opposite,” Sam explained, scanning the horizon. He froze when he saw the pillar of gray smoke, “that’s not a good sign.”

“Maybe your bird cleaned up the mess,” Crowley mused.

“God, I hope so,” Dean clenched his eyes shut against the deep gashes in the car doors and slid inside. Whispering to the car the entire way over to the pyre. He parked beside CC’s battered pick up and he crawled out of the driver’s seat. Only to be knocked back against the steel frame as CC ran into his chest, breath ragged, and face covered in tears.

“Dean, thank fuck,” she croaked as he pulled her close. “I don’t know what happened, suddenly I was lighting a pyre with three strangers on it. I, I thought I was dreaming.”

Dean stared over her head to Sam and Crowley, concern of varying degrees on both of their faces. Dean kicked himself for leaving her alone, she reeked of sulfur, gasoline and burning flesh. He held her at arm’s length and examined every inch of exposed skin, they really worked her over, fucking bastards.

“D’you have anything to do with this,” Dean looked Crowley square in the eye.

“I might have left her behind, for her own protection,” Crowley raised his hands in surrender. “I had no idea Abaddon’s goons were right behind us.”

“Who are you?” CC asked.

“Name’s Crowley, Y/N was it?” The Englishman leaned forward with a doughy palm.

“Shut up, Crowley. You know this is Chloe, Chloe Collins. You met her yesterday,” Sam eyed the demon contemptuously.

“Right, Ms. Collins, pleasure,” Crowley smiled smugly.

“He’s sort of the King of Hell,” Dean whispered as she unwrapped herself from his arms to take the demon’s handshake.

“I remember, Kevin told me all about you,” you returned his menacing stare as Crowley broke the handshake.

*^*


	12. Case of the Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Crowley makes off with the First Blade, leaving the Winchesters to continue their search for Abaddon. Our reader takes Chloe’s absence to her advantage. Will she and Dean start seeing things for what they are?
> 
> Warnings: Possession, therefore we are still in the dub!con/ non!con arena, self harm scars, period sex, blood, cum play, hinted oral sex (male receiving), thoughts of fisting, dirty talk, “drug” use.

**March 18, 2014**

**On the Edge of Magnus’s property**

“Dean, you said that once we have the Blade, Crowley would no longer be useful,” Sam insisted, eyeing you carefully before handing Dean the ragged bone.

Dean glared back at Sam, his left hand still warm against your jaw, silently he took the blade from his brother. You could feel the connection buzz under his skin as he brandished the weapon. Your heart stopped as the moment unraveled before you.

Crowley tutted, casting you a sidelong glance before slamming Sam and Dean against the car. You were just a second too late, stumbling back trying to keep your cover. The King hadn’t manhandled you, but your dramatics screamed your choice. And though disappointment flashed in Crowley’s eyes, it was so brief that only you could catch it. He couldn’t have been surprised by your choice, could he?

“You know boys, I’m in debt to you. You forced sobriety on me, and now I can see the situation for what it is. Dean,” Crowley admired, “you are quite the killing machine and it occurs to me that Abaddon is not the only name on your list. My name must be up there as well.” He called the dagger to him with the flick of his wrist.

“It’s no good to you without me,” Dean’s voice almost sounded sad, as he struggled against Crowley’s magic. His voice longed for the First Blade, if he could, he would have done anything to keep it.

“Yes, but as long as I have it, it is no good to you. Now, this is the way it’s going to go,” Crowley raised his voice. “I’ll hang on to old donkey teeth here until such time as you locate Abaddon. Then you’ll destroy her. You’re right, Moose. You can’t trust me. But sadly, I can’t trust you either.”

Sam was shooting daggers at Crowley with his hazel eyes, but all you dared was to watch and wait. In an instant your King was gone, and the boys’ autonomy was restored. Defeat accompanied you all back to the Bunker.  
*^*

**Five days later**

**The Bunker**

Sam was reading from the screen of his laptop, potential omens and odd crimes that could be linked to Abaddon. Then came the breaking headline: authorities had found the bodies you had torched, two of the vessels had been missing for years. The article hinted they believed it was linked to meth distributors in the area. You released the breath you had been swallowing back, unrattled by the fear their discovery had awoken within you. You didn’t say anything as the brothers shared a look at your overly casual acceptance.

“CC, listen, whatever happened, those people’s families deserved some closure,” Sam’s face was so understanding you almost felt guilty.

“Yeah, Cease, better to be a pile of ashes than to have your face linked to that kind of evil,” Dean agreed.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just, hard you know? Not knowing exactly what happened and why I was left standing,” you muttered, trying not to make her voice shake.

“Sometimes you just gotta keep going, don’t stop to over think it all or you’ll just start spiraling,” Dean cocked his head, he looked tired.

“Look who’s talking,” you smiled at him as the mischief came back into his eyes. “I’m gonna hit the hay, if you guys don’t mind. Still a little sore.”

“No, of course,” Sam’s voice was soft as he gave you a half-hearted expression. You pinched Dean’s shoulders as you walked past him, his hand reaching up to brush your fingertips before you headed down the hall to your bedroom.

*^*

You had long worried about your vessel, the very human functions that other demons never dealt with were everyday realities for you. You chastised yourself, that if you were in more control those base needs would disappear. Yet they persisted, even without Chloe’s presence to dictate them. You ate and drank, slept and shat. In some regard it was welcomed, because her body healed and yearned too. Things that dead vessels couldn’t do, despite their demons’ demands.

You were on the third day of her cycle when you woke in the night, rising from a dream that only drove your desperation. It ached, an emptiness that was only amplified by the moisture. Blood not lust, though to you, they were two faces of the same coin. Her body was tender and pliant, the bruises along her neck were nearly faded into her russet skin. Mindlessly, you walked down the hall, not bothering to knock as you slipped into Dean’s room. He sat up with a start, but like the natural hunter he was, he read the circumstances in the time it took you to reach his bed.

“Hey, everything alright?”

The high of fighting off three of Abaddon’s minions was still pulsing through you, and the pull of Dean’s body seemed to increase the longer you stayed with them. Maybe it was the Mark or maybe it was because he was looking at you like a free dessert, either way an intensity pulsed through the air, making you dizzy. His hand came up, drawing you into him, your eyes closed with the contact. Gently, Dean pinned your legs between his thighs as he looked up at you, waiting for you to speak, to kiss him, anything. His patient eyes searched yours until they gave you the strength to let go.

“I need you, Dean. And it’s messy and beneath you, but please, just fuck me tonight, just make me forget.”

His eyebrows raised slightly before he stood, knocking you back on your heels and kissing the air from your lungs. His strong arms pinned you to his chest, as if he would never let go. The kiss deepened, his tongue urging yours. Every heavy, over-sensitive inch of you pressed against Dean, mere strips of fabric keeping your skin from his. Hastily, you worked his shirt off, hands slipping over his broad back and onto his ass, full and tight beneath his boxers. Dean’s hands held your face, his fingers gently stroking through your hair, slowly his lips trailed up your jaw and landed beside your ear.

“How do you want to do this, Cease?”

If there ever was a voice that could make you cum just by a question, it was Dean’s. You shivered with the timbre before you slipped your shirt over your head to lay it on the edge of his bed where he had just been sitting. Stepping back to you, Dean’s hands found your waist and lifted you down onto the sheet. His mouth mesmerizing as his lips burned a trail down your bare chest. His shorts were pitched against his erection, but he ignored himself and focused on you. Eyes drinking you in as you moaned with the lap of his tongue against your breasts. The gentle sting of his stubble adding to the dampness between your thighs.

When his hands slipped down your lounge pants, he left your panties on, not wanting to rush it. He recoiled at the carving you left on her thigh, you hoped it was dark enough to hide how old the wound was. You pulled him closer with your feet, craving his weight against you. Needing him closer, everywhere. He fell gently above you, hands braced on either side of your face. His groin nuzzling against your clothed heat. Your legs snapped around his waist and you kissed him, begging him silently.

*^*

**The word found his eyes like a billboard, bright and prominent in the starless night. There had been no hesitation, no remorse. If the words on his Baby in Enochian were for Crowley, there was not doubt who this greeting was for. The rage and guilt stretched inside him like a fog, his pulse beating in his ears as his cock throbbed impossibly harder. The Mark stung like it was sucking the air around them, calling for its release. Maybe it sensed the blood, maybe it knew he wouldn’t stop until it served its purpose and ended the last Knight of Hell. Maybe he was projecting his lust upon the path he had chosen. Either way, CC was his and he was going to prove it, no matter what any demon could carve into either of them.**

*^*

“You’re killing me, Cease,” Dean groaned into your neck, his top teeth scraping against your collar bone just before he stood and removed his last layer of clothing. You soon followed, tossing the ruined boy shorts into the corner of his room. He stroked himself, leaning over your body to reach into the nightstand for lube. “As much as you’re dripping, blood is a crap lubricant. Especially with what I want to do to you.”

His voice was barely a whisper, yet it was the only sound you ever wanted to hear again. You leaned back on your elbows, watching his heavy length slide through his calloused palm. He tapped your thigh, and you opened wider, planting your feet on the edge of the mattress. You saw him swallow as he took in your red coated curls. Before you could say anything the fingers on Dean’s free hand spread you open, giving him access to tease your clit with his ruddy tip. You bit your bottom lip to keep the demands from escaping your mouth.

He looked down at you as he sank inside you, deep and forceful. Your back arched and without a moment to adjust, he began his assault. Soon the air was thick with iron and sweat, his hips smacking into you with the juiciest of sounds. When Dean went back to your clit, your sight went out and Chloe almost broke the surface. You moaned against the effort of locking her away, causing Dean to hum in appreciation. The power and the pleasure were spiraling between you. Without realizing it, you started kneading your tits and teasing your nipples while Dean continued to huff above you. Chasing your finish together.

“Fuck, you’re such a dirty girl. You just begged for this, Cease,” Dean rasped, pulling one leg flush to his chest and setting a new, deeper angle. You smirked down at the bloody streaks between you, you knew your boy wouldn’t mind some red wings. “You like that? You like making a mess?”

You whimpered in acknowledgement, clamping down as he dragged his length against your g spot, revving you up so quickly you thought you’d pass out. It hit you fast, cum gushing over him with the foulest of words slipping off your tongue. Dean set your leg back on the bed, rolling his hips slower as he eased you down. “Alright, on your belly,” Dean quipped, with a twirl of his forefinger.

You settled on your tip toes, ass and weeping pussy on full display. Dean’s large hands clutched at your ass cheeks, pulling them apart before slamming back home.

*^*

**It was taking every ounce of self-control for Dean not to spread CC open and fist her cunt until it shattered. The Mark still burned with the pulsing of her last orgasm. His nose drew in demandingly, the tang of her was delicious. But there was something underneath the blood and want, something dark and sinister, yet both unplaceable and familiar. He relished in the cushion of her curves against his hips, the resistance a reminder that she was soft and breakable. That she had begged to forget and how could he stop himself from obliging in something so mutually beneficial.**

*^*

You screamed into the bed top, it hurt so good. Your shirt rolled underneath you, as your bodies rocked back and forth over the memory foam. Your walls fluttered with the next build up, Dean’s speed doubled against your tightening core.

“Dirty girl, gonna paint that ass. You like that? Want me to mark you up?”

“Fuhhhhh, Dean,” you moaned.

“Yeah, that’s it. Dirty slut,” Dean shoved you down with a swift forearm to the small of your back and the erratic strings of cum fell over your heated skin. He exhaled, the sound of his pumping fist slowed as you rapturously lingered in the drying spendings all over you. Your swollen lips pulsed still. His fingers teased the crest of your ass, tips skating through the mess. You could have sworn you felt his initials form before his straight teeth nipped at your shoulder. A chill straightened your spine and you rolled to take his sinful mouth once more.

He was weight and warmth and everything you needed. But the dark glare he gave you when you broke the kiss, nearly sent you over another ledge.

“Time to clean up,” Dean hinted. “On the ground.”

*^*

_Chloe had been walking to the motorcycle for what felt like forever, but as with most journeys, the destination was not the point. She felt them following behind, gaining on her across the short distance from the tree line to the gravel drive. She shouldn’t have been this calm, but something kept her shoulders straight and her chin up. She knew what she feared wasn’t why they were coming for her, but that only made her more anxious. A ringing in her ears exploded and she closed her eyes to try and will through the sound. Suddenly she felt sensation pooling between her legs, and she fell over in confused arousal. Just as quickly, everything righted itself. When she looked back up, she had made it to her bike, helmet already in hand._

_She was down the road in a matter of moments, they watched her intently as she made her dramatic exit. The encroaching night seemed frozen in gloaming as she shifted into third and then fourth gear. The bull sauntered out from the shadows and stopped in her path, she downshifted easily but the animal did not stir as she slowed to a stop._

_“I didn’t mean for you to come here,” her granddad’s voice echoed around her and the animal._

_“Like that could stop me,” she muttered, raising her hand to pet the massive elk._

_“Strange you are still tethered to the living.”_

_“My body was hijacked.”_

_“And yet you live.”_

_“I have no idea how to get back,” CC huffed, she unclipped her helmet and raised it to the sky._

_The voice was suddenly closer, “and yet you live.”_

_“I don’t want to live like this anymore. The running. Just tell me how to get back,” CC spoke to her feet, petulant yet desperate._

_“Stay or go, it matters not. You will live here or there.”_

_“You always did this when you had something to hide. Cut the vague wiseman shit, tell me what I need to know,” CC demanded now, her only response was the glistening glance of the beast, her grandfather’s cataracts staring back at her._

_At long last came a gentle answer, “first you must choose. Then you can find your way.”_

_The elk was off with a start, her granddad’s presence fading on the wind. She sat down along the dividing line and cried._

^*^

**March 30, 2014**

**Hell, Michigan**

“She always was more enterprising than I gave her credit for,” Crowley considered your intelligence from Sam. Abaddon had nurseries of canned souls, ready for damnation and an eternity of servitude. Souls he never had access to from sales calls or the Pit. He stared lazily from his recliner, the bliss of his high making him more endearing than you cared to acknowledge.

“Is it something that can be replicated? Shouldn’t these souls be sought out and released? Destroyed at the very least,” you didn’t know how you had come to this. Good little soldier was not on your list of strengths.

“How’s Dean doing?” Crowley changed the subject, glassy dark eyes shining with amusement. “He miss me?”

“What do you think?” You really didn’t have the patience for babysitting.

“He always was good at ignoring his true desires,” Crowley brushed off your sass. “Kind of like how he lives in the suite of denial you keep nice and hot and wet for him. Christ, Y/N, how long have you been dragging him along with her, assets?”

“Does it matter, you have the First Blade and he has the Mark, all I am worried about is staying off the wrong end of that combination.”

“You know, I appreciate your candor.”

“Thank you? Sir?”

Crowley hummed, eyes fixed on the sun cresting through the blinds. He stayed like that in quiet contemplation as you weighed your options. There was a rumor of a Rugaru two towns over and plenty of vagrants along the way back to Kansas for you to distract yourself with. You didn’t need to be here. But Dean had grown surly and if the First Blade helped keep the edge off, you’d get it for him. Just as you got the blood for Crowley.

“Any news from Castiel these days?” Crowley’s question sent you from restless to alarmed in just six words.

*^*


	13. You Speak of Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Dean Winchester x Demon!Reader, Sam, Female Vessel OC, a nameless trucker and some guy named Alan.
> 
> Warnings: Talk of vomit, possession, angst, blood, consequences.

**March 25, 2014**

**The Bunker**

Dean felt nauseous.

He had stepped into the spare bedroom CC stayed in to change the sheets and the stink of sulfur hit him like a right hook. It was everywhere, the bed, the desk chair, little dusting of yellow flakes that stopped him in his tracks. He closed his eyes as the rage poured through the Mark and into his veins. A tiny voice inside his mind replied, ‘And you call yourself a hunter.’ He clenched his fist and released his jaw, taking in one more deep breath of betrayal.

“Sam!”

“Yeah?”

“Just come here a sec!” Dean barked, the energy drained from him as the terrifying possibilities came crashing into focus.

“What is it—shit, it reeks in here,” Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t test her?”

“I was a little preoccupied!” Dean admonished, “what? You didn’t either!”

“Is she?”

“No, she’s alive or at least she was last I saw her. How did I miss this?!” Dean’s eyes finally locked onto Sam’s. Sam swallowed as he realized how deep this cut into Dean’s carefully crafted armor. Dean dropped onto the perfectly made bed, elbows resting on his knees as he tried to gather himself.

“You’re telling me,” Sam huffed, then their old friend suspicion surfaced. “Crowley.”

Dean pulled his bottom lip against his teeth, shaking his head as it didn’t add up.

“He was pretty keen on meeting CC, Dean.” Sam mentally walked through the day at Magnus’s and the last time they saw the King of Hell.

“Oh god, Sam. What if it was one of the ones that defiled my Baby?” Dean stood and stormed down the hall toward the bathroom. “I am going to be sick, I mean, I— and she— and–”

“Breathe!” Sam rolled his eyes as his brother started to dry heave. Dean inhaled the cool, fresh air of the shower room, face leaning over the sink as Sam waited beside him. Dean tried to block the images of CC’s face in his hands, blood on his thighs, mouth on him. He sloshed the cold water on his face and neck, fingers dragging a little rougher than necessary, subconsciously hurting himself to bury the repulsion, the guilt, the fear.

“How did it even get in here, Sam? This place is warded to the gills.” Dean kept his eyes closed, unwilling to meet his reflection in the mirror. “She had a branding, on her thigh. But it wasn’t ancient, it just said, ‘Hi.’ I mean ‘hi’, really?!” Dean pushed off the sink, hand tugging the hair off his forehead.

“Might be some kind of blood spell? I’ll look in to what could have gotten past the Men of Letters’ fail-safes.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Dean sighed. “You do that, I’m gonna burn my sheets and take a shower. In lye.”

Three hours later and Sam hadn’t narrowed down what a demon would have to do in order to gain access to the Bunker. Dean had stopped himself from calling Crowley five or six times, unwilling to give the demon the satisfaction of pulling one over on him. The whole thing felt like a sick twisted game of humiliation and not even the good kind. As most days when he was lost in thought, Dean’s left hand rubbed over the Mark, like bellows doting over embers.

“Look, just call her, maybe we can meet up, exorcise it?”

“Something tells me she is going to see through whatever we cook up, Sam,” Dean muttered.

“This isn’t Chloe, Dean. This is a demon who has our friend!” Sam was losing his patience. “I mean, no matter who she’s working for, we have to go after her.”

Dean waited, letting Sam’s exasperation contort his face into five different things before he looked his big brother in the unamused eye. “You done?”

“No, but if you have something to add, why don’t you share with the class?”

“You don’t think that I know what this means, for CC? The girl that I–, the hunter that has been pulling my head out of my ass for the better part of a year to be taken like this? To have that thing inside her? Sam? Really?!” Dean had his lecture face on staring admonished at Sam’s bitch face and his lips pursed.

“Well, don’t you think it’s time we do something about it?” Sam shifted in his chair.

“Oh, we’re going to do something about it, but I’m not leaving it to chance or a bad tip from Crowley. We do what we do, we hunt the thing.” The brothers shared a look, an entire conversation that resulted in a sucking of teeth and a ruthless smirk.

*^*

_Her bike had run out of gas, how something that was extremely fuel efficient and, also the stuff of dreams ran out of gas, made little sense to Chloe. But there she was, on the side of the road in the afternoon heat, stranded. Her conversation with her granddad’s spirit had replayed itself in her thoughts for days. It was like elevator music to her now, familiar yet warbled, and easily dismissed._

_The eighteen-wheeler was the first sign of civilization she had seen since leaving the memories in the woods. If this was her impending choice, she was ready to answer and take the next step back towards control. It was not. Though the trucker was friendly and had the air conditioning on full blast._

_“Where to, princess?”_

_“Don’t know, we’ll see when we get there.”_

_The driver gave a thoughtful frown and eased off the brakes._

*^*

**April 9, 2014**

**Sayre, OK**

Fog clung to the road, sloping into ditches as the passing cars drove by, their proximity rattling the windows around you. You had pulled over to the shoulder hoping for a distraction, but that was hours ago. The body heat had steamed the windshield against the sunrise, scarlet and coral blotches appeared slowly before your unfocused eyes. You listened to the voicemail again, letting the once solacing voice eat away at any semblance of purpose you had left.

He had heard about your last case, wanted to meet half way. There were rumors about Crowley and Dean felt like his show down with Abaddon was an any-day-now situation. Damn, was he a brilliant bullshit artist. You almost believed he wanted to see you. It almost sounded that he had convinced himself he need to see CC again before that next battle. Maybe that’s what it was, maybe it was just Dean’s sentimental side breaking through before he got the First Blade back in his hand.

But it was just a hint too earnest and two puffs too smooth for someone who had done the things to you that he had. Dean knew and he was setting his trap.

You thought of going underground, knowing Crowley still had a few tails on you, despite your regular check ins. There was always defection, switch teams and play against the world’s deadliest hunters, with the last Knight of Hell as your team captain. Or you could tell him the disgusting, grisly truth and let him, or Sam, exorcise you where you stand.

None of those were without merit, but all were without much hope in your survival. The radio crackled over the opening cords of the next song, Kurt Cobain’s voice came next, shattering your pretensions, and finally the tears began to fall.

*^*

**Rock Springs, WY**

**April 12, 2014**

The Impala pulled into the parking lot just after rush hour, which wasn’t much to avoid in most respects. Sam had been on the phone on and off the entire drive, keeping tabs on the soul banks that Abaddon had erected all over. Dean was listening, but they both knew he had checked out unless it was about CC or the Queen Bitch herself. He needed the easy routine of tuning the radio and the weight of his foot on the gas. Because when he stopped or thought too much, everything seemed to unfreeze and fall apart at his slightest touch.

The motel had plenty of vacancies, especially for Agents Hawkins and Grohl. There wasn’t a verified case for forty miles, but something about putting on the Fed suit and using an alias made Dean feel in control. It was hard to believe there was a time when he hated the get ups. He replayed his times with CC on and off through the years, usually as one forgotten memory would surface, eventually they all snowballed over the bigger picture. But he could only see now where the holes in time split and the emptiness of his unspoken promises fissured.

“You call her?” Sam’s voice broke through his weapons check.

“Yeah, just rang through to voicemail. We’ll settle in and grab something to eat and I will try again.”

He didn’t turn around to see that look on Sam’s face, he already felt its sting without having to face it.

*^*

It as if she was asleep, her body seemed so much smaller from the outside. Though her boots fell inside the edge of the mattress, you felt the need to bed her knees, curling her on her side as she liked to rest. She was warm and her body heavy. You waited at the small breakfast table, new vessel’s fingers flexing as you acclimated to him. “Come on, CC, wake up.”

She shouldn’t have been tired, you had a solid six hours the night before. But when you left her mouth, you only passively realized that she was nowhere to be found. In fact, you couldn’t recall the last time you felt her fighting you.

Dean.

You hadn’t felt her since Dean. It was a good thing they were coming for you, then. Maybe his voice could break through to her, wherever she had gone. Like some macabre fairy tale, the cursed hunter wakes the mind-lost vessel. You should be gone by then, they didn’t need an audience. You didn’t need to bare witness to that. They would probably blast you full of rock salt and finish you off with their Kurdish knife. Instead you stayed, starting at the man’s generic phone screen until you heard CC’s ringtone from her coat on the rack behind the door.

Dean.

*^*

“I don’t know Sam, this all feel off to you?” Dean swallowed down some coffee as he waited for CC’s voicemail message to pick up again.

“We’re hunting a demon, not really expecting it to make it easy,” Sam shrugged.

“But, wouldn’t it pick up and taunt us?”

“Maybe it ditched her phone, want me to try the GPS?” Sam offered, pulling open his laptop on the cramped diner table.

Dean smiled at the waitress as she brought his slice of pie, though his stomach was full, he wasn’t going to deny himself a slice of Dutch Apple, especially not tonight. Sam huh-ed.

“What?”

“It’s pinging at our motel.” Sam stuck his tongue in his cheek as he spun the screen for Dean to see.

“Fucking demons,” Dean spoke through his bite of pie, inhaling all he could as Sam packed up his computer and left more than enough extra for a tip.

*^*

You could smoke out, there was still enough time. The Impala’s engine cut on the other side of the parking lot. You could almost feel him from where you sat, but this body was a poor substitute, and you were a selfish, masochistic bitch. So, you waited. Chloe’s breath was shallow, but steady. She hadn’t stirred or made even one noise. In a way, this was probably the last time you would ever see her again. Moving day and this was your last walk through of your first place. It was understandable to linger, justifying your inability to walk away from her and Dean.

They had geared up in their room, you could hear muffled voices through the walls, there were just three rooms between you and two were empty. Even whispering, you’d know those voices anywhere. They walked around the building, knowing if they took the shortest distance they would pass in front of the large window at your back. Sometimes you hated hunters’ caution and sometimes you wanted to pat their little heads. You pulled air through his nose and waited.

He called again. Honestly.

“Door’s open,” you said to whichever one was at the door, trying to discreetly pick the lock in nearly full view of the parking lot and surrounding alley. The voice was coarse out of your throat, foreign and distasteful to use for such occasions.

*^*

As the door swung open, Sam’s eyes fell on their host, before locking on to the sight of CC prone on the bed. He dragged his brother to his feet, and they walked straight into the fray. Tucking away his lock pick, Dean rocked forward in a fury, only taking two steps before he was knocked back. In half a breath, Sam and Dean were pinned against the coat rack as the door swung closed. The demon hadn’t even stood up.

“What did you do to her?!” Dean demanded, working to focus and to buy Sam time as a distraction.

“Nothing much worse than you did,” he spoke calmly, but the cadence wasn’t meant for this mouth.

“I’m going to kill you, you sonofabitch!”

“I know you want to, especially now, with all that blood-lust running through you.” The demon stood, the vessel was a white guy in his forties, small compared to them, but that meant nothing now. “The Mark really smarts after you lost the Blade, doesn’t Dean? I know how it makes you feel and how you think. So, I know you want to kill me, in fact, I was banking on it. That’s why I found a new meat suit. Didn’t wanna add anymore guilt on the Winchester laundry list.”

“But, why?” Sam searched for understanding, “I mean, why stick around for us to find you. You could have run back to Abaddon or Crowley or to fucking Botswana by now.”

The demon didn’t answer, but watched Dean watch CC, it almost seemed wistful. Sam was struggling to piece together its motivations all while fighting the force holding him against his will. But Dean had stopped fidgeting beside him, his brother had gone lax. Dean’s eyes unfocused before glaring at their captor.

“You like to watch, huh? Is that it? You get off on people’s feelings, you sick fuck.” Dean inhaled slowly with a piercing stare that further challenged the demon. He tried not to let his rage plummet with the shock as he started to feel an ease of pressure against his body.

“You know I don’t. Besides, I haven’t answered Sam, yet.” The demon approached them, waiting just out of arm’s reach. “I need your help.”

*^*

You had no clue if this would work, but it was the Hail Mary at the end of the game of your own devising. You kept going back to him and now that you had been made, you were running out of options. Nothing you did made sense, but if you were going to get through to Dean, you had to tell the truth. Or at least part of it.

“I don’t know where CC is.”

“You mean other than on the bed,” Dean was not amused with the child-like turn.

You rolled your eyes and put your hands on your hips, which was far less empowering in this form than in hers. “Obviously. She hasn’t been talking back for a while and when I exited stage left, it’s been quiet.”

“Has she had any brain damage or major trauma?” Sam asked.

You shook your head and then shrugged, possession was a bit traumatic, even when you weren’t out to derail her sanity. “The last time I remember even a glimpse of her was with Dean, so I was hoping…”

“No.”

“What, why?”

“It wants me to wake Sleeping Beauty,” Dean snapped. “I am not putting the moves on a comatose girl, not after what, just no.”

“It has a name,” you snipped, dropping your hold on Dean, which oddly wasn’t as secure as it was originally. “Just try and talk to her? Maybe she can resurface.”

“And if I don’t?” Dean watched you like a true enemy. While the power you possessed was nothing compared to what he unknowingly held over you, it was nice to been seen for what you were finally. Again, you remained silent, choosing to squeeze Sam’s throat enough for him to audibly choke. “Noted.”

He approached the bed with caution, eyeing the weapons you had forced from their grasp and waist bands with their confinement. You slid them across the floor beneath the table, nudging Dean onward. Out of annoyance more than courtesy, you removed the strangle hold from Sam’s throat. He sputtered and coughed as Dean checked CC’s pulse.

“Dean?”

“She’s good.” Dean’s large hand cradled her face as he began to whisper, “I’m so sorry, but we’re going to get you out of here. We’re gonna get you back on your feet and we can kick the bastard’s ass together, okay? Cease, you hearing me in there, huh?”

Your eyes flitted back to Sam, he looked at you with something too close to pity in his eyes. You let your eyes blacken and stuck your tongue out at him. Dean started talking again, leaving a little peck on Chloe’s forehead as he waxed on about their first hunt. Things you had learned but hadn’t realized what their past meant for him. It paled in comparison to yours, but Dean wasn’t here for you. And, finally you saw that you weren’t only there for yourself either.

“What about a dream walk?” Sam suggested, “we could probably scrounge up the ingredients between us.”

“Dean? Think you could handle it?” Everything rested on the head of a pin, Chloe’s life, your afterlife, Sam’s patience and Dean’s faith.

“I’m not leaving you alone with Sam,” Dean didn’t bother looking at you, he was too worried about CC.

“It’s not like we can trust her with our bodies, Dean.” Sam cocked his head as Dean’s eyes looked skyward.

“Demons don’t sleep, ergo it’s not coming with.”

You swallowed, remembering everything you knew about the ritual. “Dean, look, if I trust Sam to keep from killing OR exorcising me while I’m in. Will you trust me to go with you?”

“Why are you even still here?” Dean muttered, offended by your very existence.

“Because I don’t want Chloe dead, if I did, I would have done it a long time ago.”

“That right?” Dean stood now, looking down his nose at your vessel.

“Look, I asked for your help, alright?” You threw in your final chip and let Sam fall back to his feet. “Either help me find Chloe or kill me and do it on your own, but this guy has kids and I haven’t done a thing to him or her since you’ve been here. You can trust me.”

Dean let out a mirthless laugh. “Trust you? Sorry, Alan,” he quipped as he flicked the embroidered name tag on your chest. “I don’t even know you.”

*^*

He was impossibly close now and though he had been hiding it, the rage was surging just beneath the surface. Dean’s every instinct told him to kill this thing, but the way it moved and spoke was giving him a headache. It was like a bad body swap, because he was very clearly talking to CC while talking about CC. Just how long had she been possessed for it to have this sort of mimicry?

“That stings a little, but I’m not going to hold a shitty memory against you, Dean. Ball’s in your court, boys.” The demon sat down, leaning back to grab both of their guns and knife.


	14. True, I Speak of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Dean x Demon!Reader, Dean x Female Vessel OC, Sam, Alan OMC, Crowley, Abaddon
> 
> Summary: The Winchester do what they do, Chloe is still a bit occupied, our reader waits for the bus and Abaddon meets her match. Not anything worth warning you about, unless you haven’t watched season 9. And if you haven’t what are you doing here?! xoxo Stu

**Still in Rock Springs, WY**

**April 12, 2014**

“Exorcizamus te-,” Sam’s voice rang out behind you, Dean’s face smugly twisting with vindication.

“Omnis immundus spiritus,” you continued, whispering in disbelief beneath your breath. That made Sam stutter briefly as your eyes went black against the chant. You reached out to stroke Dean’s face, but he ducked out of your reach, swatting your new vessel’s hairy arm away.

“omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii,” Sam spoke louder as he stepped closer.

“Figures.” You sighed dramatically before squaring your feet, preparing for another vacancy. “Good luck and take care of our girl,” you said directly to Dean’s stunned face, ignoring Sam’s looming sneer. You jumped from Alan’s body and out through the bathroom window out to the limitless night sky.

*^*

“What the hell was that about?!” Dean shuttered against the uncomfortableness, catching the guy in front of him before he hit his head on small table. Alan’s eyes blazed open, panic and confusion escaping in gulps and off-putting moans. “Hey, man it’s going to be okay. We gotcha, just breathe.” Though still visibly annoyed Dean’s tone seemed to soothe the recently unpossessed man to functionally acceptable levels.

“What the hell, who was she?!” Alan glared at Dean like he had kicked a puppy.

“That was a demon,” Sam sat on the table top and began to give the spiel.

“Why was she was obsessed with you?! Her mind was filled with you doing all sorts of awful things, man.” Alan started to get scared again as he tried to reason with the memories of his possessor and the reality in front of him.

Dean cocked his head and met the accusations with a rueful squint. “Forget about that bitch, demons mess with your mind. Make you see things and worse. I think it’s time you go home, maybe get drunk and sleep this whole night off, like a nightmare, mhmm?”

Alan left on shaky feet, the world wider and darker than he had ever imagined. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean carefully moved CC back to their room, playing drunk themselves as to why they were carrying an unconscious woman into their hotel room. After securing the doors and windows, they were able to think about their next steps.

“Where’d you think it went?” Sam was watching Dean carefully, unsure of how much it was run-of-the-mill demonic manipulation and how much of the bravado was sincere.

“How the hell should I know? Did you see that, man, it tried to put the moves on me,” Dean scrunched his face before stepping back to let Sam check on CC himself.

“Yeah, pretty clingy, for a demon,” Sam acknowledged offhandedly as he checked CC’s eyes, not sure what he was looking for beyond reaction to light, which he hoped was normal. She was breathing and her heartbeat was steady. “Think Cas can swing a visit or are we really going to send you back in?”

Dean stared at Sam like he had something on his face. “What?”

“Yeah, that came out wrong.”

^*^

_The road was endless and smooth, the slight breeze swaying the massive vehicle enough to keep up the illusion. The trucker played a slightly static station, humming along at random. She knew he would have had a GPS or the CB going if he was real, but he was just another ferryman. If everything was so obvious, why couldn’t she work out what decision she had to make? Chloe huffed, shifting against the seat belt as the heat waves rose before them in wilted warning._

_“You know you ought to have just stayed home, don’t ya?”_

_She closed her eyes against the accusation, however gentle. “Nothing back there has to do with what’s happening to me now.”_

_“Well, there’s nothing out here for you that’s gonna help until you know the question.”_

_“Yeah, well, maybe you could just tell me and save the return trip?” CC didn’t want to be rude, it was a free ride and he had been nothing but kind. Even if he kept changing faces, Bobby, Rufus, Roger, Reynolds, Ellen, and now it was Pastor Jim. It was the faces that didn’t turn up that made her uneasy, her mother, the other elders, John even. The one face she had never seen that she longed for above all others._

_“Can’t tell you something you already know.”_

_“If I wanted to answer a riddle, I would have found a bridge,” CC grumbled, rolling the heavy crank in the door, needing to stick her head in a wind tunnel for the sheer mindless pleasure for a few minutes. She let her eyes tear and her hair trail behind her to inevitable knots. The sun was warm, and the air dried the trails of saline as fast as they formed. The hiss of brakes and the sudden pull of gravity broke through her revelry. She fell suddenly against her chest strap. Confused, she looked back to see the driver’s side door hanging open. An ear-piercing screech followed by a jarring thud forced her to see what her guide was up to. The entire trailer had been unhinged, whatever load left precariously angled against the blacktop._

_“What’d you do that for?!”_

_Geoff’s mischievous smile greeted her, his eyebrows waggling conspiratorially. He swung back into the seat and started the engine, spinning the unweighted cab deftly on its remaining ten wheels. “Better?”_

_“We’ll see.” Chloe held onto the handle above her head, a hopeful glimmer spread through her._

^*^

Dean didn’t know what he had expected, but the potion still tasted like the wrong end of a junkyard dog. He sucked it back as Sam watched with a look of sheer disgust on his dumb face. Dean inhaled the musty motel room air and coughed, the tasted burned, spreading through his chest. He didn’t know why exactly, but he dropped down beside CC’s body, hand threading through her cool fingers. Before he could finish listening to Sam’s instructions, Dean drifted away.

He awoke in the passenger seat of the Impala, parked at an awkward angle in a forgotten, yet familiar driveway.

_He knew he was younger, by the easy roll of his shoulders and the old leather jacket stuck with sweat to his face, while bunched against the window. The Mark blatantly missing from his forearm as he brushed down his sleep-ruffled hair, he checked his face in the sideview mirror. For a second, he thought he saw a gangly Sam in the backseat, but as soon as he turned around, he realized he was alone. Good, Sammy should be watching out for them in case the demon returned, not jumping headfirst into CC’s head. He felt bad enough about doing it without her knowledge, even if invading privacy was par for the course of desperate times._

_Dean climbed out of the car, closing the door with resounding clunk. He walked up to the old cast iron framed porch. The inside door swung open before Dean could knock, his hand held precariously in the air as he breathed out his greeting, “Uh, hi.”_

_“Go home, Dean.” Old Man Collins was exactly like he was the last time he saw him, in a word, dead. The entire right side of his face was peeled off, he remembered the chunks the wendigo had slashed from the ancient hunter before they had found him. Luckily for the situation at hand, his clothing was obscuring the more grotesque wounds. “This isn’t about you, boy.”_

_“Sir, I, uh,” Dean opened the screen door and met Chloe’s grandfather’s deep-set eyes. “Look, I need to find her, she got possessed on my watch and I need to make sure she is okay. I fucked up, bad and its on me to fix it.”_

_“Save your guilty sob story, son. That thing had its sights on you before CC showed up, but it’s not why Chloe’s gone. Not really.”_

_Dean’s mouth froze open, brow pinched in confusion. “Okay? But I need to know that CC is going to wake up.”_

_“She’ll live.”_

_“Forgive me, but that’s not too reassuring.”_

_The old man walked away, back into the house and settled in the recliner near the half wall between the living room and the kitchen. Dean followed, looking around as if someone else would appear at any moment. “Sit down, since you can’t bother to listen to reason, at least relax.”_

_The television was on, but the sound was off, an outdoor channel with fly fishing tips flickered on the old console set. They sat in uncomfortable silence before Dean stood suddenly. “Do you know when she’ll be back or, do I need to hop in the car and track her down?”_

_“She’s on her way now, but you’re going to leave before she gets here. She has enough things she needs to answer to without you mucking it up.”_

_“But I can help.”_

_The old Cheyenne man stood to size up the spunky upstart hunter. “You really can’t. You know I’m not Old Man Collins, right?”_

_Dean paused, nodding slowly. “You’re part of Chloe’s subconscious.”_

_“Yeah, the logical, bullshit free part. So, take that shiny black car and get. Before I start listing the reasons why you are no longer welcome in my home.”_

_“But, Cease and me–,” Dean gestured awkwardly then fumbled for words, the more he thought and spoke, the more he realized the apparition before him was right. Amused acknowledgement sparkled in the man’s dark eyes as Dean’s sheepishness stilled his tongue. “Is she going to wake up?_

_“That’s up to her, but she’ll live, neither Hell nor Holy water can snuff her out so easily.”_

_The walls shook and the sun set in a blaze as if in time-lapse, the dark room groaned as Dean caught himself on a lamp stand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_“It’s not for you to know. Now, go. She can’t face what’s in the woods until you’re gone.” Dean felt lightheaded, he struggled to hold himself upright. Old Man Collins approached him, patting him firmly on the back. “Goodbye, Dean.”_

_“No, wait, Mr. Collins, please–,” Dean sat up_ , wrenching CC’s arm up as he turned to face the dream in which he was no longer welcome.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice and face were suddenly close as Dean squinted into the dim morning light.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean groaned, untangling CC’s hand from his before kicking his legs off the side of the bed.

“What happened?”

“I got kicked out. Couldn’t even get to her.”

“By whom?”

“Her grandad.” Dean shrugged. “Well, the stubborn ass part of her brain that showed itself as her grandad.”

“Huh.” Sam chewed on the information.

“Yeah, well, good news? She’s fine, physically, apparently. So, what’d you say we head home? Get her set up in safety while we wait for her to come to?”

Sam nodded, watching Dean’s disappointment bury itself behind action and planning. They carefully laid her in the backseat, consequently, it was still early enough for them not to draw any concern from other guests. Sam paid for both rooms, while Dean stopped to gas up her truck. Simple, easy tasks, busy work to be done as the Mark made its renewed presence known, tingling along his skin.

^*^

**Denver, CO**

Slipping back into your dissipated form was overwhelming, especially as you traveled farther away. You tested your limits, spiraling as fast as you could go, paying little mind to direction or destination. Experiencing the world as a raging cloud of damnation meant you sensed emotions and actions instead of seeing them. You bee-lined toward a city, with vessels to spare and fear and anger pulling you from your own thoughts. Thoughts of the ultimate rejection, and the look on Dean’s face as he let Sam’s words sweep you into the dust bin. Like you were nothing, or nothing more than the kill of the week.

If you had a gut, it would have rolled with your swift descent.

In the formlessness, with the vast sea of humans littered beneath you, every molecule of your being seemed to hum. Emotions and justifications rushing through your thoughts as you streaked against the heavy spring air. You were bombarded with their feelings like sound vibrations, rattling from an untested speaker system. When you found a corner where a pair of people sat, drenched in fear and lust, you landed at last.

The man was buzzed, but you weren’t sure if it was the gin or the pain killers for his back that were making everything fuzzy. They were on a bench, waiting for a bus. The African American woman sitting on the furthest edge away from the portly white man, who had clearly been making her uncomfortable. Once you got your bearings, you turned to her and smiled. “Don’t worry, Miss, he’s going to be out of commission for a while.”

She muffled a shriek and called on her savior as you stood and sauntered down the street.

*^*

**May 6, 2014**

**Humboldt Hotel**

**Cleveland, OH**

Dean’s body pulsed with purpose, defined by the certainty of his mission and its now tangible completion. If he could just keep Sam from getting in the way; it would be clean and quick. God help him, Dean’s brother always questioned direct orders; Dean tried to come off as practical, cautious. Meanwhile he was jonesing for the fight. The elevator seemed to take forever, the Penthouse unrestricted to even the likes of him, which set his hunter’s logic from four to twelve in the time it took for him to breach the top floor.

Crowley was scared, but he wasn’t stupid. The minion went down easy, almost too fast for him to enjoy it. Before Dean could continue his search, she was there. The Ginger Bitch herself, red lipped and gloating. He couldn’t wait to finish this, and the tug of a not-so-distant strand of memory told him that even this demon couldn’t hold him for long. The lethal combination of the Mark and the Blade only increased his confidence. The Knight that would be Queen was his to finish, if he could just get his ass off of this wall.

Abaddon wasn’t fucking around either, she knew he was her biggest threat despite her haughty sass. She didn’t even hesitate to throw everything she had at him. As the First Blade slipped through his fingers, Dean’s resolve stuttered, but the pull from the Mark centered him, honing the rage and blood lust to draw the weapon back into his grasp. At the moment of reconnection, Dean knew she had reached the bottom of the barrel, her powers no longer strong enough to contain him.

He didn’t register Sam’s entrance, or Crowley’s astonishment, he narrowed his eyes and stalked toward his prey. It was almost sad how easy it was now, the mangled bone slicing into her voluptuous vessel, impossibly smooth and satisfying. Once he had a taste, he needed more. Abaddon’s cries a siren’s call. Dean hacked into the demon, even as the flashes of her essence faded. The blood smattering his face and the floor, it’s warmth delicious, but the hunger never abated. It was only Sam’s voice breaking through the fog that got Dean to look beyond the corpse before him and his need to destroy.

The tunnel vision righted, and Dean was himself, or the new version of himself, the marked and armed version. Letting Crowley talk his way out of their demands, Dean knew that his list of potential kills held few as deserving as the King of Hell. But a Winchester didn’t back out on a deal and Crowley had done right by them, until CC’s face floated through his thoughts. He never even asked whose stooge had made a vegetable of her. Unfounded retaliation sounded perfectly acceptable now. The calm returned, because Dean would find the demon and he would take his time.


	15. Angels are Assholes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Chloe faces what was following her in the woods. Dean gets a monologue, before going darkside and all knifey on some angels. Crowley toys with our reader. Cas squints in confusion. Somebody wakes up and somebody doesn’t until they’re gone.
> 
> Warnings: Suggested child rape (past, unfounded), blood, feelings, mind-fuckery, revelations, character death. This chapter is super long.

_The clouds rolled in behind her as CC came to a stop in her usual spot, kitty-corner from the porch. Her bike had been miraculously refueled once she found her way back to it. The fog of the subconscious haven thinning as she put her boots on the ground and faced the figures looming in the shadows. She opened her mouth to call out but thought better of shouting at bits of her past. They’d find her anyway._

_She stepped through the trees, letting the path unwind itself as she faced what she needed to know. Now that she was focused and no longer running the opposite direction, it all started to come together. Her granddad kneeled along the bank of a dusty river, strong hands timidly comforting a young girl, who was visibly shaking in her sparkling new school clothes._

_“It’s alright, my Falling Star,” his voice was low, but CC recognized the nickname he had given her mother. The child whimpered and shook her head, an infant’s cry broke through the forest’s peace._

_“I didn’t mean it now,” was all she heard her mother say._

_As Chloe turned to look for the baby, she found a weathered neighborhood sidewalk, houses in need of paint jobs and new shutters stretching before her in every direction. A long sedan with police lights on the roof parked in front of a yellow Cape Cod with wooden siding. A woman with oversized glasses held a file in her arms as she talked to CC’s granddad, her mother and her watching them from the front porch. She hadn’t remembered her mother ever being that young, small and nearly fragile._

_“Mr. Longfellow, we understand that the original complaint is unfounded, given the child’s other genetic markers, but there has still been a crime committed. Please, let us put the bastard away.”_

_“I know you mean well, ma’am. But my Candace is fine and we came here for a job, we won’t be staying long enough for any investigation. Thank you for your time.”_

_“Sir, if you’re protecting someone—,” the officer spoke for the first time. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, and he visibly flinched when her granddad’s eyes fell on him._

_“The only ones I am protecting is those girls, now get. We’re done here.”_

_CC stepped forward, wanting to ask what the social worker was talking about and possibly glimpse the blood tests that must have been among her paperwork. But her mind held her in place until the memory faded and she found herself on another street, sleet-slick and freezing. She saw the old station wagon fish tail and the driver try to over-correct, completely losing control and wrapping the car around an old oak tree._

_“Chloe!” Her mother screamed against the static of falling ice crystals._

_“Mama?” Chloe was frozen watching her mother limp around the hood of the car to get to her._

_“It’s okay, doll-baby, it’s okay,” Constance reached her hand in through the shattered passenger side window, to touch CC’s forehead. “You’re going to be fine.”_

_But she lost consciousness, the blood flowing through her hair as her mother continued muttering in Tsėhésenėstsestȯtse. Then she saw it, the blue magic flow from her mother and coat her in a golden light._

_“You can’t die. You can’t die. You can’t die. You’re going to be fine.” Constance inhaled and then fell against the untouched edge of the tree’s trunk, her strength leaving her as she joined her daughter in unconsciousness. The sirens came an hour later, the back roads impassible, but miraculously the woman and the young girl were found in stable condition. CC didn’t even know they had ever been in an accident._

_The darkness followed her to the small back bedroom in Montana as she saw her barely teenaged self staring at the ceiling. The argument wafted through the walls like a television left on._

_“You’re just going to leave her? Clean up your own mess,” her granddad spat._

_“That’s not fair. She’s safer with you, you know that. There are things that I need to do, that only I can do.”_

_“Yeah, you do too much of that and they’ll find you. They aren’t stupid, Constance. You shine like a beacon and they will follow you home,” his voice was desperate, Chloe couldn’t remember ever hearing him sound so worried._

_“Then maybe I shouldn’t come back.”_

_There was an agonizing pause._

_“Maybe not.”_

_Chloe didn’t realize it, but both versions of her wiped at the same tears of betrayal with the heels of her hands._

_“It’s okay, child, just relax now,” Missouri’s voice was soothing, despite her own skepticism. CC opened her eyes, she was in the memory this time, not looking at it from the outside. “Well, this is a new one.”_

_“What’s that supposed to mean?” CC heard herself say it but had more pressing questions at the moment. She began to speak over herself, “What’s happening Ms. Mosley?”_

_“Girl, you’re going to have to slow down, I can’t hear all of you at once.”_

_“All of us?” CC remembered eyeing the corners of the room as if this woman was seeing things._

_“I’m not the one asking if she’s crazy, so don’t you go thinking ill of those helping you, Chloe Cathleen,” Missouri snipped._

_“Yes, ma’am,” CC said in unison with her past self, Missouri always had a natural command of respect and if she wasn’t shown it, she demanded it._

_“Now, you’re gonna come back here, in a good long while, but I hope what I say now makes sense to you,” her dark eyes lingered, a burden near pity overtook the psychic’s soft features. “You are a miracle, made unique and uniquely made, but that also means you need to be careful. It’s like you have a glowing vacancy sign on the front door, next to the one screaming there’s nothing to see here. It gets confusing. But know this, you need to fortify your own house, because certain guests are welcome, but most are not.”_

_“Thanks?” CC’s past self said through squinted eyes, but her current-self locked onto Missouri’s weighted stare, certain she had sensed her the entire time._

_A voice sounded behind her and Chloe suddenly remembered who had told her about Missouri in the first place._

_“I was right, wasn’t I?” John’s easy grin turned sour when he saw the confusion on CC’s face. “Hey, everything okay kiddo?”_

_CC nodded, the grief of seeing Dean’s father again brought up the events that had led her to Missouri’s front door. Her granddad’s death and knowing she would have to face her mother again after years apart. “Yeah, or, it will be, in a good long while,” CC parroted Missouri._

_“Somethings are like that,” John patted her back and walked her to his massive truck. “Where to? Dean’s got something in Illinois this weekend, but we could probably salt and burn things faster without him, what’d’ya say?”_

_CC smiled at the offer, but thought better of tagging along with the Winchesters, especially without Sam. “Just take me to Bobby’s, or close enough for me to hitch there,” CC corrected, seeing the tension roll in as John’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Thanks, though.”_

*^*

**May 13, 2014**

**The Bunker**

Dean stalked down the hallway passed his room, ignoring Sam who lingered in front of his own bedroom door. The infirmary was the only place that made sense to keep CC, so that’s where he headed as soon as they got home. Dean hadn’t wanted to put her back in her old room, not after he gutted it. They had her on a simple cot, jacket set on the back of a chair and an old quilt from her truck tucked around her chest. Her gun and her knife rested easily on small bedside table. She never moved, still in a state close to sleep, her heart beat and her lungs expanded, but she never woke.

Dean watched her and chewed over the spreading numbness inside him. Between the two of them, they were a butchered collage of folk stories, each broken parts of different tales, cursed and waiting to be saved or charging the castle and any monsters that stood in his way. He was on a narrow path, one down, two boss fights to go in the grand saga of the Mark of Cain. Dean was alight, focused, up until he tried to start talking.

“Hey, Cease,” Dean’s voice caught in his throat. “I, uh, well, I ganked Abaddon. It was pretty unreal, actually, but yeah, put her down for the count this time.”

Dean had done his fair share of talking to the unconscious, especially if one counted the time spent praying to Cas, listening to his own voice wasn’t as uncomfortable as it should have been. He settled on to the empty cot next to CC and balanced his elbows on his knees.

“You know I had a feeling, about you, about that thing inside you. And I know it was there longer than that day at Magnus’s. But I didn’t say anything, because, hell, who am I to judge, right? But it was worse than I thought, I thought it was just a chip on your shoulder after that case in North Carolina, but I was wrong, and for that, oversight, I apologize.” He shifted and he cleared his throat, “But, I don’t know why I’m sorry. Am I sorry because I missed the obvious? And never tested you? Or because I let you in and got hurt? What exactly is my fault here because I’m used to taking it all on and I can’t really feel it. Any of it. I’m just pissed and the only thing I want to do is the job. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He stood up, energy gnawing at him once more. His voice grew angrier, no waver to his jaw and no moisture in his stern eyes.

“So that’s what I’m going to do. Because I owe you that much, even if it’s not going to bring you back. I am going to gut that black-eyed bitch.”

The certainty hummed along his veins like a tuning fork, vibrating in the key of Cain and the decided fates of his enemies. Blood and destruction his new anthem. Gone was the righteousness and purpose that had carried him this far. Inside, his soul flickered.

He continued to watch CC on the cot, thoughts and memories warring with the need to move. Luckily, Cas called, giving him the excuse he needed, allowing him to walk away.

*^*

**The Bunker**

**Tail end of Stairway to Heaven**

“Cas, you just gave up an entire army for one guy,” Dean explained across the table. “No, there’s no way you blew those people away.”

Castiel didn’t realize how much he needed to hear Dean say that, to know that his friend believed in him once again. “Do you really think that we three will be enough?”

Dean gave Cas a company smile. “We always have been.”

Cas cautiously watched Dean as footsteps approached from seemingly out of nowhere.

“Guys!”

“I’m not here to fight,” Gadreel announced with his hands up. Dean locked on to the fugitive angel, his sights set, and his senses primed. Gadreel spoke pointedly to Cas as Sam challenged his honor, but Dean wasn’t listening, he was busy keeping the Mark in check. Then it happened, an olive branch, an opening to add to their numbers. To strengthen and inform their dwindling resolve. Dean reached forward with his lesser hand, extending hope, if a tenuous partnership. The moment their palms touched and their eyes locked, Dean knew. He didn’t hesitate, he swung, blade teeth up, slicing Gadreel hip to collar bone, a broad seam of grace gaping in his chest.

Sam dove for him, but it was already done. Dean pushed on, the Mark craved more, it demanded death. Both Cas and Sam had to hold him as bestial grunts escaped his lips, he wouldn’t be stopped, not yet.

They listened to him, but still left him in the fortified space behind the storage in 7B, the dungeon. There was that other thing they needed Cas’s help with and after Gadreel had escaped, however bloodied, they took the five minutes and headed deeper into the Bunker.

“I can’t believe she was possessed this whole time,” Cas muttered, hand drifting inches above Chloe’s body.

“What? You knew? How long?” Sam spat as he loomed overhead, head tipped, watching every motion of the angel’s fingers.

“Since Nebraska, since the fall, Sam. She, the demon, almost ran me over with her truck,” Castiel explained, huffing against the flickering grace inside him.

“And you didn’t think to tell us?!”

“Dean wasn’t exactly willing to lend me an ear, I suspect it had to do with hiding, who he thought to be Ezekiel, from the other angels, who were hunting me.”

Sam settled back on his heels, processing what that meant for his brother and CC and their, situation. “It’s been a rough year, I’m sorry. But, is she going to wake up?”

“I don’t know, probably. But there are layers to her mind that I can’t get through. She isn’t just dreaming, and she’s not an empty vessel. I don’t think… I don’t think she’s human, Sam.”

Sam froze, “Well, what the hell is she then?”

“Nothing I have ever seen before.”

“Any idea?”

“Some sort of hybrid, when I search her mind it literally tells me she is human, nothing extraordinary.” Cas’s brows pitched up, hoping Sam understood.

“Someone put that there to hide her.”

“More than one person did this.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“No, if she did, she wouldn’t have been possessed in the first place. She probably has no idea who or what she is.” Cas stood up, eyes still on the sleeping woman before them. “Or what she can do.”

*^*

**A Demonic Massage Parlor, The Tropics**

“You see, Y/N, there are perks to working with the throne,” Crowley muttered into the towel that held his face. The demon working him over was wearing an unnaturally beautiful vessel, every detail coiffed for seduction. Which she used to her advantage as she whispered poorly veiled taunts of demonic unrest.

Graciously, your vessel had died from cardiac arrest shortly after you walked him away from harassing the woman at the bus stop. You couldn’t have bothered letting him live much longer anyway, his mind was two parts alcohol, one-part abuse and a few too many pinches of misogyny. But he had means, even after his license had been revoked, so you kept on his identity and found your way back to being Crowley’s gofer.

The male demon who had been assigned your massage was too busy lusting over the one trying to get in good with the King. You kept having to move his hands as he worked. He was not utilizing his vessel’s muscle memory, at all. The entire scenario wasn’t much of a perk, it was more of one more thing to endure in order to stay on Crowley’s good side. You hummed in agreement, the deep voice still uncomfortable in your throat.

The walls began to shake, and you rolled your eyes at the bimbo’s obvious statement.

“Sir, I believe you’re being summoned.”

The next thing from her lips sent a pitfall through your gut.

“It’s a Winchester.”

You had no idea how she knew who was on the other end of the spell, perhaps it was an acquired skill or an enchantment to the room placed for her own protection. Either way, you remained quiet as Crowley waved the help off and dressed himself.

“Sir?”

“What? You want me to give your regards?”

“I’d rather you didn’t mention me at all.”

Crowley watched you with a slight distaste, “Fine, just don’t let Tarisette clock out, just yet.”

You nodded, rolling over as the man’s large gut shifted uncomfortably to the side. You really needed a new vessel and a plan.

*^*

_She hadn’t seen her in eleven years, hadn’t even spoken in five, but her mother was just as beautiful and menacing as she had ever been. She remembered this conversation because it was the one that changed her life._

_“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”_

_Words that were the perfect greeting for someone like Constance Collins to her estranged daughter; Chloe forced a chuckle. Playing tough, her past-self spoke, but she now watched her mother’s wandering eyes, the telltale fear and alarm of a trapped animal. She was scared of her, not just what else could find her. Find them._

_“Do you have any idea what’s going on out there?!”_

_“No, Mama,” both of her replied, the past defiantly, the present sadly._

_The edge wore off, maybe it was reliving it, but Chloe had let go of her anger with her mother somewhere between there and now._

_“The angels are everywhere, you need to be careful,” Constance mumbled, stepping closer to her daughter, her hand coming up to brush away a strand of hair mindlessly. As if they were familiar enough for such intimacies._

_“Is Gram’s angel back?”_

_“I don’t know, I haven’t heard that name, but we need to be careful. They will find you if they need to.”_

_“What about you?”_

_“Me? Me, they’ll kill on sight.” The fear resurfaced in those chilling words, nearly apologetically._

_Chloe turned and faced the bright and unnervingly blue eyes of a weaselly business man._

_“Chloe is it?” The man’s voice was nasally but pressing._

_“Maybe, depends on who’s asking.” She wasn’t in her body, but this memory wasn’t that old, she had seemed to have travelled sequentially thus far. The missing memory set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. She watched herself talk to the weird man, confusion burning through her._

_“Someone who knows your family, on your grandmother’s side.” He lost all pretense as two more angels stepped behind you._

_“What do you want from me?”_

_“Relax, we just need to run a few tests, you won’t remember a thing.”_

_The scene changed, but she still hadn’t returned to her part in the memory._

_“Sir?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“The Contingency?”_

_“What about her?”_

_“She’s waking up.”_

_“Well, knock her back out. She isn’t going to tweak herself.”_

_Chloe couldn’t see most of her body, only a strip of arm behind the angels surrounding her. The room felt like a surgical bay, pure white with lots of metal. A spare bed and what looked like dental equipment remained untouched on a side table. The metal rods looked long enough to pierce both ears, simultaneously. As soon as she arrived, she returned to the street with the presumptuous man._

_“You can call me Zachariah. Do me a favor? Reach out as soon as you hear from those Winchesters again.”_

_“Uh, sure thing,” Chloe pocketed the business card, and before she turned to go the guy vanished. Figured, good thing she never intended to help the creeper in the first place. She crossed her arms over her chest recalling how she hadn’t been able to shake the sense of Déjà vu for a week._

_There were ridges along the ground that rose and fell with each new memory, the woods cracking open and rearranging as she navigated the path toward her decision. She watched them sink and settle, unaffected by the new topography she walked on. After an hour or twelve, she came back to the clearing that held her Granddad’s cabin, spotting him eyeing her through the sun-bleached curtains._

_She stomped toward the small house, feeling the anger and frustration churn with each step. He could have said something, anything, years before. This wasn’t just on Mama, this was on the Old Man too. She tried to center herself, tried to hold back the rage and the betrayal their secrets created. CC failed at composure, never one to tip toe into an argument._

_She yanked the storm door open and stepped inside, eyes like saucers at the state of her granddad, her words sticking behind the latch in her throat._

_“There’s our girl,” his voice fell flat, the mutilated side of his face rippling as he clenched his jaw._

_“I guess this look is better than the bull elk,” CC mumbled as she took the familiar course to the battered sofa. “Let me have it, what do you have to say for yourself?”_

_“Nothing. I’m not here to speak for the dead.”_

_“So, what are you here for then?”_

_“The choice.”_

_“Right, well, I want to wake up, figure out just what she got me into.”_

_“That’s not what you need to decide.”_

_“Okay, I’ll bite. What do I need to decide?”_

_“Whether you are going to go back to life as a human, forgetting everything you’ve seen and losing all those burdens and pain from years in the dark.”_

_Chloe stilled, though her hand reflexively worried the handle of her knife, worn and familiar beneath her callused hands._

_Her granddad’s corpse continued, “Or, you go back. With all of the hard truths and the responsibilities of one brought into being by a simple childish wish from a being who had yet to grow into her powers or place in the universe. You can go back knowing who and what you are, but that comes at a terrible cost. For Heaven’s eyes will never be far from you now and the minions of Hell will seek you out as a fortress against the light._

_Either way, you wake up. But, first, you must choose.”_

_His beetle black eyes watched her, the emptiness threatening to consume her as CC realized the elk was her true family. He never wanted her to come here, but now that she had; the choice must be made. Knowing she wouldn’t die wasn’t so reassuring anymore, and twisted laughter erupted from her chest. The part of her mind that became her worst memory watched her, unwavering._

_As she closed her eyes, CC inhaled._

_And chose._

CC opened her eyes, dragging in a deep breath through her nose as her body protested her every shift. She pulled her hands into fists and clenched her back through the clammy shivers of waking up. The air was cold and stale, a raw discomfort reassuring her that she was back in her body. She appeared to be with the Winchesters, there wasn’t any other place she could think of that had brickwork like theirs. She sat up and looked around, scanning the abandoned sick room. CC stood, staggering on pins and needles, and clumsily took her knife and her gun. Carefully, she made her way down the hall. Every room was empty, or locked. Every room until the one she remembered. CC almost missed him, he was below eye level after all. But she found him, off to the side and flat on his back. Dean.

Dean sticky with blood and unnaturally still.

Dean.

Dead.

No.

“No.”

She stumbled from her perch in the door frame, reaching the edge of the bed to fall beside Dean. She grasped at his shirts, shaking him.

“What did you do?! Damnit Dean,” she howled, voice cracking from lack of use. She slapped him, the cold skin of his cheek stung as she fell face first against his pillow and fissured. This was not the reality she fought to get back to, she wanted to go back. But there were no more memories to seek out and now there would be no new ones made. Not with Dean. Her arms clutched to his face, pulling him up, his bulk anchoring her as she sobbed. Nothing felt connected, rage, guilt, grief flowed into a noxious mix and Chloe had to step back. Hurling all over the floor as her body rejected the trauma as much as her mind had.

Once the putrid yellow liquid had emptied itself, she focused. Where the hell was Tweedle Dum?

“Sam!” CC walked backwards, keeping her eyes on Dean’s body as if he would disappear at any moment, just another nightmare she needed to pass through. “Goddamn it, Sam, where the fuck are you?!”

She was still crying but clutching the door knob and shouting through the cavernous Bunker had given her some slight release. If anyone was going to hear her, it wasn’t going to be misunderstood for more than it was. There was a faint rumble and the sound of doors closing.

“Sam?” CC’s voice broke and she whispered to herself, “Oh, Maheo’o, please. He’s okay. He has—”

Sam rounded the corner, dirty and mystified.

“—to be.”

They fell at each other, Sam tucking his gun in his belt before his arms could hold her to his chest, keeping her upright. “I’m so sorry, Chloe.”

She felt his words more than she heard them, her head clouded, ribcage unhinged and gaping. She kept looking over her shoulder, watching Dean’s body, but Sam turned them both away, unwilling to let her dwell on it like he had, the entire drive home.

“What happened?”

Sam swallowed. “Metatron.”

Angels. Of course.

She nodded, trying to remember everything she could about what they had been hunting last. “But what about Abaddon? And Crowley? How long have I been out?”

“Yeah, well, hey are you alright? Do you need anything?” Sam held her at arm’s length, taking in her eyes and her steadiness. “Because I was going to summon Crowley, make him fix this. Since he was the one that started this whole suicide mission with the Mark of Cain.”

“Suicide? Sam, what are you talking about?”

Sam sniffed. “Oh, Chloe, tell me you know. That you–”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me, dumb ass.”

Sam almost laughed at that, inhaling with a mirthful pout. “Let’s get you some water and then how about we see what we can do?”

“How can we just leave him like that?”

Sam gave her a sad smile. “We’re not going to. Let’s go.”

Sam led her to the kitchen, keeping his right arm over her shoulders, at the ready should she lose her balance. But he needed her there more than she ever could.

“Finally,” Crowley muttered as he watched Sam and the empty vessel slink off together.

*^*

This was new. It was as if a seatbelt had been strapped to his soul, barring him from escaping the wreckage that was his body. So much for meeting his new Reaper and getting the spiel that was once reserved for Tessa. He tested the barriers of his body, unsure what would happen if he couldn’t crossover. Would he go vengeful? Was Sammy going to have to go full blowtorch on his ass? He started to separate, slipping from solid to gas and back to liquid as the darkness pulled him apart. He folded in on himself, twice, twenty, two thousand times until he was frayed and knotted and mangled beyond belief. The unscratchable itch remained the same, the Mark the source, but not the remedy. Dean stretched, reaching out to gain control in a space only he could navigate. It was disgustingly fragile to him now. Everything felt, lesser. It still reeked of humanity and its pathetic mortality.

Then he heard him, Crowley. That smug bastard really could spin yarns, but Dean wasn’t convinced, yet. He settled back, as easy as slipping into an old flannel, finding his arms and toes and all the other places he liked to control. Once Crowley made his true offer, Dean knew what he sold to be true, or as available as any other fate to him now.

And so he opened his eyes to bask in their shared damnation.


	16. Too Good To Be True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Events occur between the season 9 finale and before the season 10 premiere episode Black. CC and Sam try summoning our reader. Our reader slips back into an old ensemble and tracks down Dean. Who is a very different sort of nasty. Who will gain the upper hand? Who will fall farther into darkness?
> 
> **Warnings: EXTREMELY LONG CHAPTER, 18+, Possession, kidnapping, bondage, blood, talk of necrophilia, hair pulling, dirty talk, make-shift collaring, choking, biting, slight cum play, accidental urination, this slides all over from non-con to dub!con to consensual smut, be prepared, rough sex, violence, attempted murder, animal slaughter, finger fucking, orgasm denial. THIS IS A DARK FIC. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.**

**June 4, 2014**

**The Bunker**

It had been two weeks. Fifteen impossible days since she had woken up to find Dean’s corpse. A shell of the man she had trusted through the mess which was the past year of her life, gutted and left on his bed top awaiting another resurrection. Chloe hadn’t really grieved, not with Sam’s absolute certainty at Crowley’s stake in it all. He wouldn’t, so she couldn’t. Sam was starting to worry her, his determination bordering on obsession. But they were a team now, not quite partners, but something close to equals. Not just two old vessels needing to hold on to the someone that kept them both human. That was why she even suggested it, because Sam understood her, and he loved Dean.

“No.”

CC’s chin tucked down, eyebrows hitching higher at Sam, who was trying to reason with her. “Why not?”

“Because we just got you back, there’s no way I’m letting you bring the damn thing here.”

“So, you’re just going to keep tracking demons states away, hoping one of them has something we can follow?!” She never really got angry, not like this, this was more than her natural base level of annoyance. This was battle hungry and it rolled through her in waves, she needed to get out of the close quarters, the stale air, out of the place that was only ever empty now, despite Sam never leaving her alone for long. “Look, she was on terms with Crowley. I can’t remember everything, but honestly, she is the only in we have.”

“What if it’s her? Huh? What if she is the one riding Dean around? Then what?”

Sam watched CC closely, the flinch around her eyes gave little away, but the hesitation was enough. She thumbed out her knife case at her hip. “Then we end her and figure out the rest.”

“If we do this, if, then I want to lead. You’re too close to this,” Sam crossed his arms over his chest, chewing on his bottom lip. CC stared back at him, unamused and impatient. Sam tried, but he didn’t have a leg to stand on at that point, they were both as close to it as reality allowed. Professional hunters or not, this was going to smart. “Fine, but we call Cas, keep him on standby.”

Chloe rolled her eyes but huffed before nodding. “I’ll get the ingredients.”

*^*

“Is this as weird for you as it is for me?”

Chloe’s cheek drew back into a cross between a snarl and a smirk. The flippant pharmacy tech, complete with lab coat and chain store nametag stared back at her, slight and birdlike her dark features accented with heavy brows. “No, because I never pretended to be you.”

The demon shrugged, demeanor calmer than CC knew her to be. “Sam, good to see you again. What, no Dean?”

That was it, the crack in the dam. Sam surged forward as CC recoiled, ready to snap, until she saw it. Confusion. She grabbed Sam’s elbow just in time, his hair and the tip of his nose brushing the invisible barrier of the Key of Solomon freshly repainted on the dungeon floor.

“You know damn well Dean’s not here. Where is he? Huh? What did Crowley and you do to him?!” Sam barked at their subdued guest, brushing out of CC’s grasp just to pace around the circumference of the trap.

“What is he talking about? Dean’s with Crowley?” She looked at CC as if they were on the same side, failing the formalities and banter in one swoop of panic.

“We don’t know for sure. When’s the last time you saw…either of them?” CC was wary, but this thing had been inside her head, she understood enough about her to know that she never tried to hurt Dean. Though the childish scar on her thigh wasn’t forgotten either.

“Uh, couple of weeks? Crowley ditched me for a summons, sounded like it was either of the boys. Haven’t heard anything from him since. But, I haven’t exactly been looking, why?”

“And Dean?” Sam spoke up, sizing up the demon with a menacing squint.

“When you started exorcising me, Sasquatch! Geez, what’s got your phazers knotched up?!”

CC looked at Sam in commiseration. “She doesn’t know.”

“Know what?”

They stepped away, not really bothering to get out of earshot. “Could be an act,” Sam speculated as the demon continued to watch them, appearing very human and suspicious in the borrowed meatsuit.

*^*

There were words and there was information and yet the two pieces of CC’s message were not fitting together in your mind. As if she was speaking a lost declaration to a conqueror, expecting her pleas to be met. But they wouldn’t be because the meaning and the means were not compatible. It did not make sense, because there wasn’t a reality that could do so without Dean Winchester in it, somehow.

The walls of your carefully crafted façade fell in chunks as the truth shone back at you in Sam’s eyes. His unwavering resolve shaking your being to remember fear, to defend yourself, but you couldn’t put forth the effort because every instinct you had was hollowed out, leaving you ransacked and raw.

“How?”

Sam narrowed his glare, pursing his thin lips and sniffing before looking to CC, who continued to bare the bad news. “Metatron.”

“No, how did Crowley–? Did he–?” Words were not coming any easier now that you stood among the tatters of your self-control. You wouldn’t cry, not with them looking down at you like that. Hunters, the worst kind of humans, righteous and deadly. Dripping with the unseen blood of their last kill. You wanted to hate them.

“We’re not sure. But we need to get his body back.” CC stared at you with her storm cloud eyes, her arms folded over her shapely chest. Her hair was darker again, but it was ragged, hanging over the smooth shoulders of her jacket in strings. They both smelled of stale alcohol and coffee, Sam had at least put on a fresh shirt recently. CC looked like she had slept in her clothes. They had settled on desperate, and slowly you were keeping up. The stone that had settled in your stomach twisted at the thought of finding someone else, something like you inside Dean. Even in Hell, he hadn’t, you couldn’t even think it. How was the only thing you kept coming back to, the why’s of Crowley were revealed eventually, but the how was what kept the guilt springing forth.

The Mark, there was nothing else that could have allowed such sabotage to befall someone like Dean. You had stopped listening to them, minutes or moments ago, you couldn’t be sure. “Why didn’t you just burn him? He should be with your folks, none the wiser. Now you’ve got who knows what done with his face?!”

Sam’s chest heaved as if to unleash on you with venomous fury, but CC stepped closer instead. “Not your place to judge us, you bitch. If you wanna throw accusations around, fine, we can go for hours.”

“Like you can remember enough to accuse me of anything,” you winked at her as Sam groaned.

“Look, do you have any idea who Crowley would have stuffed inside my brother?” Sam’s voice was hoarse, the fight slipping away with each word. You hadn’t really seen Sam like this, he has always been large, but he was thinner and out of CC’s perspective he seemed to stretch and loom above you, a patchwork scarecrow.

“Look, other than Crowley, I have avoided demons as best I can.” You paused, grasping for anything that could help. Why did you want to help? Before you could dwell, you continued, “if I can track him down, or them down. I am going to need something to guarantee I’m not walking into a noose. I need insurance.”

That got their attention, Sam leaned down eagerly. “We can tail you. Cas, uh, we can can get him, if we need to.” Sam swallowed in the middle of his offer.

“I heard the thief was winged up again. Why can’t he track them down?” You looked from Sam to CC, the air heavy with truths they weren’t ready to divulge.

“We assume wardings, but with Crowley it could be anything.”

“Exactly, that’s why I am going to need more than your promise of back up and the holy roller,” you let your eyes rake over CC like a favorite outfit. “I need something that would stop Dean in his tracks.”

CC raised her eyebrows and cocked her head, meeting your challenge. “We don’t even know it is Dean.”

“Still, I need to know you’re not going to leave me to rot.”

“Sam? Give us a minute?”

*^*

Castiel watched Sam prowl the hallway as they waited for CC to be done with her one-on-one with the demon. They hadn’t talked to CC about what had been deduced about her origins, too worried about Dean and Cas’s fading grace to spring something so monumental on a woman who had just come out of a coma. Then instantly found her lover dead. If they had ranked every conversation they had ever put off, this would have been in the top five. None of the others had benefited from their avoidance, Cas doubted this one would prove better.

“Sam?” Cas’s voice broke through Sam’s brooding long enough to see his friend was staring behind him. Spinning Sam recoiled at the two women walking toward him, however sheepish they appeared, Sam’s instincts reached for the knife at his back.

“You going to stab me with a civilian here?” The woman who was no longer Chloe quipped, watching both Sam and Castiel carefully as she perched behind the nervous pharmacy technician. “Guys, this is Ish, think we can get her home safe and sound before re-tackling the, uh, case?”

*^*

Sam slid into the driver’s seat of the still warm Impala after returning the last vessel to her flat. You were now comfortably back inside CC, who waited in the passenger seat while Castiel wheezed in the back. “Alright, spill,” Sam spat over the bench seat. “Or I will make you.”

“Sam,” Castiel warned through the strain left over from remapping the woman’s memories.

The engravings on the blade sparkled in the early morning sunlight, markings similar in meaning but all together different from the one at your side. “No, you won’t. And jailbreaker back there doesn’t have enough juice to make me hop vessels just yet. Look, CC let me out because she understands that we need to work together to find Dean. And just like I am going to protect her from him, she is going to protect me from you. All of you.”

“You keep talking like she agreed to any of this.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t free myself from the Key, Tweedle Dum.”

Sam rolled his eyes and put his demon killing blade away. “Don’t call me that. Just don’t.”

*^*

**June 12, 2014**

**Mauston, WI**

You had followed an unlikely trace on the last number you had for Crowley and ended up in a tourist trap smack dab in the middle of Wisconsin. It was two days of combing waterpark parking lots and themed saloons before you spotted them. Minions. They were bored, but ambitious, keeping a safe distance from Crowley and an oddly cheerful demon in Dean’s body. Preparing yourself hadn’t been worth the effort; everything tightened in rage from the defamation. You continued to leer at the pair in matching cowboy hats as they stumbled to the waiting car. You followed two vehicles back, suspicious as they took the backroads to a less gaudy hotel.

You fought the urge to call Sam with the license plate, wanting to be sure. Wanting some time alone. Needing an outlet for this unmanageable weight of injustice. Thirsting for vengeance.

*^*

The house sat alone down an unmarked drive off of a pebbled service road on the edge of a tree farm, beside endless rows of fledgling corn stalks and a true forest. It was once yellow, but it had paled over the years into a dusted egg shell, the remaining shutters hung in warped jade. You left CC’s truck parked behind the caved in garage, far from view, using a non-descript stolen sedan for your daily surveillance. By the grace of a knowledgeable vessel, you had become a soldier after all.

You were holed up in the second-floor bedroom, lining up your supplies and finalizing your plan. After three days on their tails, you were ready to move in and finish the piece of shit one way or another. You had every weapon against your kind known to hunters and demons alike, stocked and sealed. You had salt rounds for the shotgun, CC’s knife and two handguns. You felt CC’s approval flow through your thoughts as you ran over your arsenal’s inventory once more. It wasn’t like before, when she surfaced randomly or was lost for gaps of time. Now she was sitting shotgun, emotions and opinions flowing easily between you. It would have felt nice having company, if you weren’t so keyed up.

Craving the fight, you made your way out the backdoor, trying to keep any trace of your presence from the main floor.

The drive was a mindless two-lane highway to their latest crashing point, adjoining rooms at an inn connected to a small casino. Crowley had been playing craps, making deals on the side. They didn’t have long before they bankrupted the small operation with their black magic, sending CC’s haunches up with the disrespect of the local tribe’s main source of income. As far as you could tell, the one riding Dean wasn’t a crossroads lackey, and he certainly didn’t keep his exploits candid.

You worked the perimeter of the gaming floor, having snagged a housekeeping uniform the day before. You arrived just before happy hour and just after check in time opened, ensuring you had the cover of what the small town considered a crowd. Dean’s body was casually leaning on a slot machine, making bedroom eyes at the waitress. She was probably home on summer break from the closest state school, in general, too young for him.

His voice drifted over the noise as you heard his blatant flirting. “You know I have a friend who is Native, yeah, Cheyenne, got a place out in Montana. Beautiful country. You ever been?”

If CC’s blood could boil, you would have evaporated. How dare he? Your hands shook with the effort of controlling both of your anger. The sliver of doubt that had wedged in your resolved began to grow; a demon couldn’t steal that kind of memory from a dead vessel. You wheeled the cleaning cart down the hall, keeping him in your periphery, taking note of the coed as she made a beeline for the nearest exit.

Rounding out the service entrance and back through the small alley by the dumpsters, with only a momentary detour at your car before sauntering up behind the mass of denim and hands. You cocked the gun and waited for them to notice you.

“Wait, what was that?” Dean just hummed, his lips dragging down into the collar of her uniform. You cleared your throat, and she pushed him off her. Hiding her cleavage beneath her hands.

“Get back to work, jailbait. Let the grownups talk.” She didn’t need to be told twice, she checked her apron was still tied as she sprinted away, barely glancing over her shoulder at the man who had been inches away from finger-fucking her over her ten-minute break. No bad blood for impetuous youth.

“Well, now, I was just talking about you. Were your ears burning?” It licked his lips and turned to face you straight on.

“You’ve got five seconds to shut up and get on the ground before I put a bullet in your sorry hide.”

“What? Aren’t you happy to see me? I mean, I’m downright ecstatic to see you. Finally manned up and faced me? What’s it been two, three days now?”

You swallowed back the bile as his words flowed over you like a hot spring, warm and sour. “One.”

“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m so excited to see you?” He approached you with an overzealous swagger, those strong bowed legs closing in with ease.

“Two.”

“Well, I’ll tell ya. You see, I was going to kill ya and you just went and saved me the whole tracking you down part.”

“Three.” You exhaled, waiting for him to go for the gun.

“Good thing I’m not a hunter anymore, wouldn’t have been able to kill you in your good clothes,” Dean’s voice dipped, the sun low on the horizon casting your corner of the employee lot in fading purples.

“Four.”

“I don’t know why you’re still counting. Your five seconds are long gone, and you haven’t shot me. Because you won’t, because you’re sweet on me. Even—” Bang! “—nowwww! Damnit! You shot me!”

You had planted a 9mm slug in his right shoulder. He hadn’t expected it, but the wait was worth it to see the look of shock in his eyes as he sank to the ground. He lurched forward, chuckling as he let his overconfidence carry on, until his knees gave out. With a satisfying thwack, you elbowed him in the temple. “Devil’s trap bullets, jackass.”

*^*

CC had tried to keep you calm, her voice low and steady. But even she wasn’t patient enough to wait until he came to. You grabbed the first bottle of holy water and made your way back to what must have been the dining room once upon a farmhouse. Dean had been found himself in this position before, you hadn’t. You had him propped up on one of the two usable chairs, spellworked cuffs pinning his strong hands behind his back. Your fingers still burned from where the metal singed against your damned flesh. You hadn’t taken much time for self-preservation.

The mirror was warped inside the old hutch, piss colored splotches creeping over CC’s face as you stared down to his almost peaceful form. You swallowed, trying not to remember the first time you had laid very different eyes on him. Trying not to see the inevitableness of this moment. Your ruined fingertips ghosted over the tips of his hair. CC cleared her throat and you internally kicked yourself, then stepped on her foot.

With more pleasure than was necessary, you dumped half the bottle over his scalp. Putrid wafts of scorching flesh met your nose as a primal grunt echoed in his chest. “Wake up sleepy Dean,” you sing-songed, rolling CC’s knife in practiced motions.

He snarled up at you, perfect teeth gritted against the purity of the water, “You’re a fucking bitch.”

“Yup,” you popped the p and tilted your head. He breathed through the pain, the room became eerily quiet as you watched him get his bearings, you caught him clocking the exits and debris. Things a hunter would do, something Dean would have done. The more you wanted to reason away the obvious, the more it came at you from every angle. “So, now that I’ve got your attention. We can catch up! Heard you died, that sucks.”

He huffed, apparently not enjoying your snark, but you found it made it easier, finally being able to say everything you wanted to without fear of exposure or consequence. “I’d apologize for cutting your hookup short, but I’m not really sorry. I mean, I figured you had a type, but using CC as an in? Pretty low.”

Dean grinned easily now, eyes flicking black, “Yeah, well, look who’s talkin’, sweetheart. Filthy demon in a used-up slut, can’t get much trashier than that.”

“Oooo-whooo, Dean,” you cooed, slashing the silver edge of CC’s knife down his right cheek. “You should be careful, because she can hear you, too.” You whispered the last part, winking just before the wound knit itself back together before your eyes. The speed of his healing changed things, and you tried not to let the shock show.

“CC’s still in there?”

“Yup, got myself invited back and everything.” You shrugged, smirking wistfully, “guess she liked what I did for her.” You leaned down, two inches from his left ear. “From what I remember, she isn’t the only one.”

“Take these cuffs off and I’ll show you what you can do for me,” Dean hissed, his eyes sinking back to the hazy green you had memorized. His pink lips hung open, knowing he had your full attention. That kind of ego always amplified itself in demons, smarmy bastards. You hummed and walked away, letting her hips sway a little more with each footfall of her boots over the creaking wood floorboards. You sat on the stairs, just out of his field of vision and waited as he tried to coax a response from you.

Twenty minutes of jabs and sweet talk, never once did he say anything that told you anything new. Nothing about Crowley and his bar tour or about the Mark or anything useful. Just smartass comments and taunts for CC. You both knew what he was doing and so you drew it out, let him sit and stew. Knowing he would get bored and fall silent, but never too silent. He still breathed, though his body no longer needed it.

The chair dragged across the floor, his bare feet pulling him only an inch at a time as they remained tied to the front legs. You weren’t worried, but he could see you again. You absently scrolled through your phone, pretending to ignore his mocking stare.

“I know you can’t be getting a signal out here.” Dean’s voice, it was still his voice, rich and deep, menacing. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as he continued to purr at you. “Is this what we’re going to do? You pretend to ignore me and I just still back and look pretty?”

“Well, we all have our gifts,” you shrugged.

He considered it with a pout. “About that, what’s your deal, hmmm?” He tipped his head back, eyes squinting just so. “What kind of demon possesses a hunter and doesn’t gut everyone she can? I mean the sweet justice of it aside. Getting to feel their heart slow and that high when you watch the life leave their eyes? You know what I’m talking about.”

He was good. Your heart beat a little faster as the darkness surfaced, the thrill of killing, the rush, the power. You smiled and let out a rattled breath, “I do.”

“So, again, what is your deal?”

You stood up and walked back into the room with Dean, noticing the gashes across the floor from his efforts. “Why don’t we get started on you, then we can talk about me?”

The iron side of the blade nicked his forearm as you paced around the chair. The blood bubbled before cauterizing the skin, Dean pulled against his bindings, but kept quiet. You lingered behind him, pleased to see it took much longer to heal than the damage to his face. The smell of his wound reminded you of where you met, the hours left hanging in the dark waiting for your next, appointment. You felt CC slacken in your mind, she wasn’t ready to enjoy what you were about to do.

*^*

**An hour later**

_He was grasping for straws, trying to draw CC out so he could hold something over the bitch. But she wasn’t giving in and just when he thought she was going to take a break, she sunk the blade into his gut. Dean clenched against the stinging metal, stomach clenching with the pain. He swallowed and bit his tongue, trying to keep his mind off the way she pushed the ironside up, wiggling it just so. His head came down hard against hers, but she caught herself on his thigh, squeezing as she left the blade inside of him. She patted his cheek with her opposite hand, his blood sticking to them both._

_The sanctified metal stopped him from mending himself, the blood pulsed through his veins and out over the handle. She stepped back, surveying his body, looking for a human weakness that was no longer there. “So, Dean, since we have settled on you being you. Tell me, why haven’t you killed Crowley? Huh? You got Abaddon out of the picture. Why not the King himself? What’s your deal?”_

_She was mocking his voice now, and not in the way demons could replicate true voices, now she was going straight schoolyard antics. The thing was, she was pissed, he could feel it coming off of her. He took a deep breath and stuck his jaw out. “What can I say? He’s a better wingman than Sammy.”_

_She wasn’t impressed, her eyes dulled at his quip. Damnit, he didn’t know why he was trying to get a rise out of her. She wasn’t going anywhere._

_“What, does he want from you?”_

_“Apart from being the most efficient killer on the planet? Haven’t a clue, sorry.” Dean watched her through heavy lids, pursing his lips. She let that sink in, her brow furrowed and just as the blade dislodged itself from his intestines, she caved, pulling the remaining weapon out at last._

_“We both know Crowley has more than one use for you, Mark or no. But maybe the master doesn’t talk shop with the tools?”_

_Dean chuckled. “You sure you wanna insult me? After all the trouble you went to find me? No, doll, we both know I’m the kind of special even Crowley can’t deny.”_

_“You don’t look like much now.” She added a patronizing pity to her voice, it tickled just the right way. He stuck his tongue in his cheek and played up the burn. She wasn’t CC and that meant she wasn’t paying close enough attention._

_“Takes one to know one.”_

*^*

Dean kicked out his ankles, snapping the chair to pieces as he stood up. The ropes hanging loose with fresh wiggle room. He raised his wrists to the sky in mock surprise.

“Don’t need to be a demon to wrangle out of cuffs, now do I?” His eyes flooded black as he forced you on to your heels. His hand reached into the splayed fabric just under his collar bone, yanking out the sigil-carved bullet. You tried to move with purpose, knife held firm in a quickly sweating palm. Your control of the situation had shattered into a million pieces and all too late you tried to run. He reached you before you made it to the door, meaty fingers tangled in your hair while gripping the collar of your coat and shirt all in one deadly hand.

“What I do I look like now? Huh? Because right now you look like you need to meet the new me, you piece of shit.” His breath was hot in your ear, saliva spraying against your cheek as you stiffened a scream. You pushed back, trying to struggle out of your coat, throwing all your mental power against his strength as his free hand snaked around your body. He reached for your knife hand, the Mark glaring at you from beneath his rolled-up sleeve. With a simple twist, he snapped your wrist.

White hot pain soared through you in near blinding waves. CC’s knife thudded to the ground as you screamed, bending to cradle the broken bone to your chest. Dean rutted himself against your ass, heavy chest pushing you further over. Your stomach rolled at the growing thickness in his pants. His fist loosened on your jacket only to thread deeper in your hair. Deftly, he yanked you back to standing, the skin of your scalp burning with the torn roots.

The tears stung in your eyes as he laughed, the constant, yet usually faint mockery in the nickname was no longer veiled. “Oh, sweetheart, we are going to have so much fun.” His nose dragged along the curve of your jaw, his mouth hot over your jugular. As if on cue your pulse throbbed louder in your temple, a drum beat to mark each moment he lorded over you. “I’m going to show you just what a demon is supposed to do. Because, I don’t know what you called that in there, but that wasn’t torture.”

“Who do you think I learned it from?” You squirmed, searching for a weakness, trying not to look him in the eye. His face slid back, focus never wavering.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Who?” And his teeth sunk into the thick muscle at the back of your neck, the bloody anguish poured up and out of you.

“You-u-u-u asshole,” you moaned, words fading with the light of consciousness.

*^*

There was a knot in the floor that appeared to be looking at you. Its iris was wide and its pupil a sliver cat’s eye. You stared back at it, unblinking, ignoring the stabbing pain of Dean’s every entry. He had started before you had regained consciousness, your jacket tossed aside, patches of bites cooled along your neck and chest. Your breasts were pinched beneath you and your mangled bra, your face burned with shame. You watched the wooden eye witness what he did, unaffected and silent.

He slid his thumb into your ass as if you were a bowling ball. Being hurdled into a formation of wooden pins would have been a welcomed outcome now. You groaned as he teased his dick with his thumb, the nail pushing into the thin membrane between your channels.

“Oh, great, somebody’s awake,” Dean muttered, his annoyance at your presence oddly hurtful.

Your insides twinged from his thrusts, every pulse of your blood sang out in protest. Your walls stung, weeping from the unlubricated friction. You tried to push yourself up on all fours, only to crumble once more as you put pressure on your broken wrist. The handle of her knife caked in his blood called to you from across the floor. You needed to move. His palm came down hard on your ass. “Come on, don’t give up on me now. Fucking a corpse is one thing, but now I have your attention I was hoping for a little push back.”

You swallowed back the bile. Your good hand slapped the floorboard, pulling with all your strength to slide away, to not give him what he wanted. You whined, sounding more pathetic by the minute. Through clenched teeth, you willed the knife closer, not that you were ever that powerful, but you had to try. (Throwing the Winchesters around that motel had been the best you had managed thus far.)

You cursed CC, thinking about all the months you had to struggle with her to shut up, but then you felt guilty for the situation you had gotten you both into. That was it, the moment you snapped. The thought of CC looking you in the eye, the strength that emanated from every part of her. She had trusted you and now you were getting her raped. You surged forward, Dean’s hips stuttered as you army crawled toward the discarded knife.

“Ooooo, somebody decided to play,” Dean taunted, he slid from your body, pushing off from your hips like he was watching you ride a bike without training wheels. “There it is, grab it, grab the knife.”

You tried to ignore him, but the jostling of his belt made your skin crawl. Just as your hand brushed the wooden handle, he was on you again. The thick leather strap was shoved down over your mangled locks, dragging your bottom lip along with it before securely landing around your throat. “That’s a good girl,” Dean coached. “Bring me the knife, bring it to me and you’ll get your bone.”

You croaked against the pressure, “I am NOT your fucking dog, Dean. I will give you the damn knife, just let me stand up.”

He tossed the edge of the belt over your shoulder and released his thighs from your sides. You slipped on the worn floor, left hand shaking as it finally clutched the familiar instrument. You struggled to your feet, pants lodged over your boots. In a lightning quick move Dean slipped around you, disarming you and pinning your good arm to your side with his cable-tight embrace. His free hand slipped down between your legs, playing in the mess he had left there.

Somehow, he was still hard, and quickly realigned himself to slam back inside you. Leaving a light gush of air against your mutilated neck.

“Isn’t this what you’re after? Huh?” Dean snarled, snapping his hips against your backside, hand once more wrenching your hair back until you could see spots. “Come on, baby, I’m not going to hold your heavy ass up all night.”

He wasn’t going to go easy now, not even after you handed over the one piece of hope you had left. You swallowed against the limp belt, and squared your feet, trying to keep yourself from falling over, from letting the blade slip, even an inch.

“That’s it, don’t go soft on me now,” Dean purred, lips dragging over the marks he had left.

“You talking to yourself or—?” That earned you a quick slice to the ribcage, heat pooled from the spreading skin as Dean slipped out of you. Your abused core pulsed and swollen, but he wouldn’t give you a chance to recover. With his hand still firmly in your tresses, he walked you forcefully forward, pants cuffing your ankles, like a chain gang march. You hit the wall with just enough freedom to turn your face away from impact, your cheek slamming into the obscene wallpaper. The mid-wall accent border bit your stomach as Dean continued you to tease you with the knife in his other hand.

“You’re pretty mouthy for somebody who just got taken down and made my bitch,” Dean’s voice was low and menacing, you didn’t think you could get anymore scared, but the sudden calm pushed you passed reason, the warm stream trickled down your legs, unable to completely control her body’s reactions, even now. He gave a disgusted hiss, “yeah, you should be scared.”

Instantly, he was gone, your head heavy once more on your neck. Dazed, you shook with relief. Just as you turned to make a run for it, struggling to yank at the waist of your pants. Dean caught you, square in the gut, up and on to his shoulder. His rough shirt rubbed against the gaping wound along your ribs. Apparently, he had been a linebacker in a past life because you had no chance of breaking the hold he had on you. You elbowed him in the neck as hard as you could before he dropped you on to freezing cold tile. Your head barely missing the crumbling sink.

“Clean yourself up, I’m not done with you yet.”

You gave yourself two fuming breaths before you met his glare. Black to black.

Dean left you on the bathroom floor with some semblance of privacy, too bored or disappointed with you to expect anything more than what he demanded.

You could have smoked out, leaving CC there alone with him. The thought crossed both of your minds as you wrenched his belt from your neck before struggling out of her messed clothing. Both shirts were in taters and he had bent the wires so bad the bra was useless. You washed her jeans as best you could with one hand in the grimy tub, trying not to cry. If this is what it took to get Dean back, was it really worth it?

_Yes._

The voice came from no discernable source. Not you, nor Chloe, just the ether between. You waited for her to reply, but she was gone again, either lost or hiding. Fucking coward. You shouldn’t have blamed her. You just didn’t have that luxury anymore. You stood in her soaking socks and stretched, the wound on your side smarted, though the bites had begun to mend themselves despite the promise of scars. Which should have set off an alarm, had you not been so focused on your next steps.

You set the drenched clothes on the side of the tub and started the shower, rusty water rattled through the guts of the house. You slipped off the last bits of clothing and cleaned yourself as quickly and carefully as you could. You didn’t know how long you had to yourself. You cursed the wet jeans, which were impossible to slip into in the most ideal of circumstances. Nothing about this was ideal. You started to retreat, looking for the moment he had figured you out. He had probably seen you coming a mile away, the shame and frustration trading jabs in your gut. You tried to focus, to keep yourself for shivering, staring at the same crack in the wall as you disappeared in your backtracking. Losing control of the situation wasn’t the worst of it, seeing his satisfaction in breaking you was. Because it was close enough to the Dean you knew to make you sick.

_Don’t let him win._ The voice again.

‘Fuck you, Cease,’ you thought. The real Dean’s nickname for her rolling off your thoughts like a slip of the tongue. You closed your eyes and swallowed.

“Dean?” You had no idea if this would work.

“What?”

“Can you grab my stuff from the truck?”

You felt the eye roll, yet still heard the door open and close shortly after. Huh, maybe there was hope. You slipped the cut up thermal back on and pulled it down as far as it would reach before stepping out of the bathroom. The side door was nearly equal distance away from where you were and the front door which Dean had used. You could make it, but then you’d be a brown demon with no drawers running through corn fields. CC couldn’t out run him human and even now you weren’t on even terms, not with the Mark; there was no escape.

You had to wait it out.

He came back with CC’s duffel in one hand and her small cooler in the other, his fly was still open, his boxers visible.

“Okay then?” Dean breathed out, with a pleased nod and a puckered chin. You held out his belt on your forefinger, which he snatched only after tossing the bag into the bathroom, passed your bare legs. You don’t know why, but you didn’t flinch away from his proximity. The small act of him grabbing your things settled the tension as quick as damped candlelight.

For a moment you were struck dumb, waiting for his next instruction or assault. “Surprised you didn’t ditch her, but I knew you liked me. Liked me so much you got back into that piece of ass just to find me, huh?”

He secured his pants, smug and calculating as he watched you close the unlevel door in his face.

That was his second mistake. It felt like he had watched you grovel by asking for help after everything he had done. Maybe he even thought he had won. But it was only the first hurdle behind you. Because you hadn’t climbed out of Hell itself to let him get sucked back in.

*^*

He hadn’t apologized, not that you expected him to. Nor did he bat an eye while you snapped your bones back in place, sprinting your right hand with a spare flannel.

“Come here.” Dean gestured with two thick fingers from where he sat on a ratty recliner, mindlessly flipping through the television channels before tossing the remote at the couch. You had no idea there was power let alone a working television. Leave it to Dean to get it operational from nothing. “Look, I don’t want to fight. I mean it.” He gave you a half smile that almost felt like the real Dean. “It was kind of hot though. I think we can have some real fun, if you’re up for it. As long as, you don’t go hitting me with the arsenal you have upstairs, I won’t have to put you in your place.”

Was this a choice? Play along or get the wrong end of his wrath?

“Give me back her knife and we’ll call it a truce.”

His eyes lit up at your counteroffer, murky mischief just waiting to be unleashed. You held out your good palm and suddenly he grabbed it, pulling himself up from the chair and into your bubble. You kept your eyes down, watching his hands encase yours. His callouses were rough and warm, ricocheting over your skin as you tried to keep the fear at bay. Everything about him was larger now, your hand impossibly smaller once he dropped the freshly cleaned handle inside it.

He walked away, scratching the back of his head as you bent nearly in half to get it back in its sheath. “You good?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice and not wanting to open up.

“Good, let’s get the hell out of here.” He raised his eyebrows and pouted those lips and, of course, you caved.

*^*

You had to convince him to drive, your hand still cradled at your chest. Once he found a radio station he could stomach, he didn’t hold back: singing or speeding. Dean drove north then east and north again; three hours and you hadn’t seen anything wider than two lanes in all directions. The warm breeze whipped around the windows of the pickup, smells of the North Woods mixed with wet fields, new life and earth mixed with a coming rainfall. Storms that seemed to be looming in the rear view the entire drive.

It was enough to relax, to breathe the night in, certain that you both wanted to be there. He made small talk, avoiding your jabs about Crowley almost as often as he ignored the king’s calls. Dean’s face was a lazy kind of amused, something you didn’t see enough when he was human and never when you first came to love him. The thought ludicrous now, but still a tightly wound tether grounding you, all while inching you closer. To him, to final death, to magic or release. To freedom.

Sink or swim.

“You alright over there?”

You nodded, wiggling the fingers on your knife hand feeling the pain ebb minutely.

“So, what do you do for fun?”

“Besides track down grumpy hunters that don’t stay in their beds?”

A guffaw, and that tongue to wash it down with, right behind those pearly whites. He was the worst kind of dangerous, demon or not.

“Yeah, what was the first thing you did topside?”

“Oh, Christ, you’re going to laugh.”

“Probably but try me.”

“Gutted a bull.”

He tried, which you appreciated, but Dean didn’t hold back the laughter long. “Well, shit, and here I thought the things just kinda keeled over whenever demons rolled up.”

You didn’t tell him it was intentional, that you were looking for hunters. Namely him. But it was enough to get him to pull over, the garish blue and white lights of the small gas station a modern-day oasis in the vacantness of civilization. He glanced back at you before hopping out of the driver’s seat, black eyes flashing briefly. “Ready?”

The half-asleep twenty-something had no idea what to do once you stormed in, bee lining for the beer cooler.

“Uh, we can’t sell after midnight.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we aint buying then.” Dean grabbed some skin mags, shoved one in his back pocket while flipping through the other waiting on you. You came out with three thirty packs of name brand shit, because fuck it.

“Damn, bro, your girl lifts for you, huh?”

Dean glanced at your full arms and raised an eyebrow. He turned back to look at the clerk, eyes inking out. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, man, uh, whaaaaaaat the fuck are you,” he sputtered, the last words barely above a whisper.

Dean held the door open for you, giving the clerk a rueful smirk and wave.

*^*

Fresh and mortal the animals wailed in their stalls, their blood and manure mixed with the scents on the air, electrifying the pulsing rush of adrenaline you had been riding. Dean keened at the sky, the clouds finally catching up to you. He tipped back his third beer, the flavor still biting behind your nose. You missed the heavier poisons. Bending down you touched your forehead to the beast’s, hard bone and coarse hair lodged between fear drenched eyes. She went down easily, the heady liquid pouring from her neck as you followed her down into the muck.

Dean was watching from up on the fence, he had barely let his boots sink into the filth alongside you. You rubbed your face against the heifer’s muzzle, soft and pliant against your skin. You left a kiss on the tip before licking your blade clean.

“As good as the first one?”

“Everything’s better with an audience,” you hummed, leaning back on your elbows next to Dean’s side. Absentmindedly he threw his arm over your shoulder, his thumb rubbing the skin of your forearm. You weren’t batting that away.

“How’s the wrist? Up to drive back?”

“Uh, yeah, guess a bloody show does a vessel good,” you quipped, realizing your knife hand had been used without a hint of its former break. Dean hurled himself back over the fence, and hovered as you hauled yourself back over, one filthy leg at a time.

“Hey, how about you lose those pants for the ride back?”

“Well, points for being direct, Winchester,” you huffed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“I mean, if you want to get shit all over the cab, be my guest,” Dean retreated, sauntering around the hood. Fucker had a point. You kicked out of your boots and shimmied out of the pants. You used the spare clean patch to wipe your hands dry, there was no saving them after that many entrails. You snatched the belt and knife before you dropped the boots in the open truck bed and left her socks and jeans behind. Certain to confuse and rile the farmer further come dawn. Lighting shot across the sky as you peeled through the small yard, like a gunshot to start the race.

*^*

“You’re losing speed, should I stop?” Dean teased into your ear, his right hand coaxing your pussy down the highway. You bit your lips and tried not to close your eyes, increasing the pressure on the gas as smoothly as possible. This was his third time bringing you to the brink just to leave you a heaving, twitching mess. “That’s it, baby, just another hour and we’ll be back, and you can cum.”

You whined as his thumb rubbed against your clit, the sticky mess of his doing squelched as he removed his thick fingers from inside you. You trembled from over-stimulation, hands clutching to the wheel as Dean carefully slid your panties back in place. He went to slide back to the passenger end of the bench seat, but you grabbed him before he could get too far. Without taking your eyes off the road, you dragged his right hand back to you, slipping one then two of his soiled fingers into your mouth. Your tongue sang with your juices, knowing just what the kitten licks of your tongue over the pads of his fingers were doing.

“Enough,” he growled, yanking his hand back with quick and quiet authority. “Pay attention to the road and you’ll get us there faster.”

*^*

It was everything the night of your standoff hadn’t been. Primal and desperate, sure, but Dean never moved without silently checking with you first. His eyes intense and possessive as he ate you up. His pink lips worshiped your swollen clit, the hours of build up sent you over the edge within moments of him getting you on the generic motel room comforter. When he entered you after two shattering orgasms, he held your hip in one hand as he braced himself up with the other. He never stopped caressing you. When he came he pleaded for you to look at him, ‘the real you’ he said.

So, you tumbled over the edge with Dean, black eyes shining with the morning sun as it pierced through the polyester curtains. There was no feeling greater, no raw unsurfaced need left unfilled like this. To be seen and accepted, just as you are. All your faults and deceptions and stupid mantras appreciated alongside the best of you. To be known, inside and out.

But it wasn’t him. This wasn’t the Dean you loved, it wasn’t the version you met in Hell and it certainly wasn’t the hunter CC had fallen for either. It twisted your stomach until all that was left of the momentary triumph was the sour aftertaste of regret. The sensation of everything you had ever wanted, laid out before you, just to have it sullied with something as feeble and as human as this. It hurt more than the years without him. Stung more than the months hiding in her shadow, the weeks that she was lost to you and the random moments of her clawing at you from inside her thoughts.

But that didn’t stop you.

Because if what he had become chose you, it was the best you were going to get.


	17. Inviting Yourself In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Sam trusts his gut. Our reader breaks the bubble she and Dean had been living in. Dean proves he’s in control while Crowley begins to see the potential in our reader, or is it CC’s potential?
> 
> Warnings: Not a lot of progression timewise, lots of smut though, possession, 18+, breath play, markings, dub!con smut, dirty talk, masturbation, facial, cum play/ eating, most demons don’t fight fair, voyeurism, vaginal fingering, anal play, anal sex, oral sex (male receiving), spit roast.

**June 10, 2014**

****

****

**The Bunker and another Crossroads**

Sam rolled out of bed and on to his hands, the cold floor unforgiving as he braced himself in practiced movements. He barely ate anymore, living off coffee and whatever he could grab, corn flakes were sometimes too much effort. He knew the stages of grief, his TA’s voice from sophomore year still resonating in his memory. He knew this was anger, but it wasn’t from grief, it was from trusting the thing that had CC. The thing that even Gadreel had pointed out, yet Dean ignored.

Sam Winchester was pissed and when he couldn’t take it out any longer on his muscles, he would take it out on the next monster to cross his path. The demon that he and Cas had cornered watched him carefully as he paced the trap. A feral cat stalking its supper all while stuck in a cage of its own making. However successful the planning, this foe wasn’t giving them what they needed. Sam’s veins begged for satisfaction, throbbing with overheated blood. He taunted the demon, unable to play off of Cas the way he did Dean.

The rage seethed beneath every syllable, Sam turned on his heal, overconfident with Cas’s presence against the minion of hell. In a blink of an eye his arm was wrenched behind his back, he had crossed the barrier in his dramatics and the deep pull of tendons where the only truth to reach him. The demon was talking, words buzzing around as Sam bent over, too weak to gain the upper hand from this angle. He searched for Cas, needing the save yet having to search for his own salvation. Damnit! Cas was gasping as he tried to pry the demon off of Sam telepathically.

Sam drew in a choppy breath and then another, letting the demon mock Cas a bit longer than necessary before sacrificing safety to sweep the leg. He heard the nauseating snap in his elbow, but he had planted the demon flat on its ass allowing him to scuttle from the trap once more. Cas was on him in a second. “Sam!”

“I’m, uh, fuck, okay. Cas, okay!” Sam groaned as Cas reached through him with his depleted grace. The demon laughed somewhere off to the side as Cas fell over in exhaustion.

*^*

**June 14, 2014**

****

****

**Another motel near Wisconsin Dells**

You couldn’t place the ringtone other than knowing it stirred an annoyed memory from CC. You rolled over and tried to hide from the incessant noise, unfortunately no motel issued pillows would ever be dense enough for that hope to come to fruition. Your phone had been destroyed during the mess at the farmhouse; it must have been Dean’s. Wherever the fuck he had got to. How many rings did it take to go to voicemail? Too many, apparently, because after seven or eight peels of digitized chords you reached over and ended the call. Not bothering to check who was calling, you rolled back over as the sounds of the shower became clear.

Dean had ardently proven that he no longer needed sleep the night before. For you that meant you were now sore, parched and exhausted. There was a faint yet telling sort of ache, the kind that reached parts that could only be earned chasing another release or some sort of extreme sport neither you nor Chloe would ever try voluntarily. You cursed Dean’s hips when the phone began to ring again.

“What?!”

A deafening pause greeted you before the spine straightening voice responded. “Well, that explains things. Y/N, Love, care to get the man-child on the line? Business call.”

“What do you want?” You huffed and kicked your legs over the side of the bed. Your ankles creaked in protest, but they got you to the bathroom door despite the weakness and floating feeling in each subsequent joint.

“Dean. Are you getting denser with each possession?”

You rolled your eyes, but held the phone to your chest, calling into the soothing mist, “Crowley’s on the phone.”

“Tell him I’m busy,” Dean barked a little louder than necessary.

“I’m not your secretary,” you muttered.

“What?” Oh, Christ, they were synchronized.

“Can you hold a minute? He’s just getting out of the shower.” The curtain snapped back, Dean’s eyes squinting against the pelting water. He mouthed his disbelief at you, the smugness radiating from your cheeks as you kept eye contact. “Sure thing, my Lord.”

“Pardon?” Crowley stuttered as your voice rose to a coy pitch.

You handed Dean a towel and bit your bottom lip, pretending to be absorbed with whatever Crowley was spewing. “It has been too long, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about, but I am guessing you have gotten his attention by now?”

“Of course, sir.”

Dean hopped into a pair of boxers as you settled upon the untouched bed. He dragged the towel through his wet hair before coming for his phone. He snapped his fingers before beckoning for it.

“Okay, well, Dean’s ready for you now.”

Dean rolled his eyes as you played innocent, lingering over a sendoff Crowley didn’t give you. You handed over the phone and tried to stand, but Dean’s free hand clamped down on your collar bone, pinning you in place.

“What is it?” Dean looked down at you as he listened to the King of Hell, eyes hard and jaw tight. His grip loosened on your shoulder only to clutch fiercely against your throat, his meaty palm hot and heavy against your larynx. You could breathe fine, but the pressure was uncomfortable, you swallowed instinctively, and Dean responded. You wheezed, trying not to give in and try to speak, but the breath strained even through your nose. You watched his lip curl in sick pleasure as you started to get lightheaded, the thudding of your heartbeat rang from your temples to your ears.

“What if I say no? I’m keeping busy, still well below the radar,” Dean’s voice rolled with fresh bravado. His face shifted, and he raised his eyebrows at you, that pink tongue slid over his pristine top teeth like your knife across the cow’s throat. “Yeah, well, girls like to go out once in a while. Had to show her a good time.”

A fresh panic settled in your gut as you realized that Dean’s conversation and your mind had met in the middle. He tossed your head to the side, exposing the litany of bites and hickeys he had left there just the night before. Quickly your brain moved from danger and fell deep into submission. Lazily, his thumb traced his lips’ path, the pressure lightening on your throat. You cleared it, swallowing down a cough as Dean continued to watch you and listen to Crowley’s instructions. Slowly, almost imperceptibly his hand curled around the nape of your neck, bringing your head upright. “Yeah, well, I’ll see you later.”

Dean ended the call and tossed the phone behind you on to the bed. His left hand sunk into the hair framing your face, everything about the way he looked at you said the same thing: hungry. He stepped back and dragged you to the floor, it was then you knew what he was after.

“Get down there, there ya go,” Dean coached. Once you were squared on your knees, with only the wrinkled shirt of Dean’s covering your body, you licked your lips waiting for his command. His left hand rested on the top of your head, his right mindlessly rested on his thigh, the fingers dragging the fabric of his boxers in short tugs, teasing his growing hard on. His eyes roamed your face, not quiet focusing on your attention, taking in the pieces of the whole before granting you anything.

“Easy, baby, hold your horses,” Dean snickered, throwing your urgency back in your face as shame, quickly spreading across your cheeks and chest. Your eyes fell downwards, focusing on the gap between his knees and the drab carpeting beneath you. “You were pretty cozy with Crowley just now, maybe you should have stayed back and serviced your king?”

You remained silent, waiting for Dean to take as long as he needed.

“Little slut, fuck anything that looks at you sideways,” Dean snarled down at you, pushing your face away as his lips curled. Anger seethed through you, along some hidden corridor CC stirred, standing in solidarity.

“You know that’s bullshit,” you snipped, glaring back up at him. “She spent weeks alone with Sam and Castiel, months wandering between your hookups. There was no one else.”

“I’m not talking to CC and I sure as hell wasn’t talking ABOUT her, bitch.” Dean’s voice was calculated and bone chilling. CC gasped but kept silent as you continued.

“What do you want from me, Dean? You want me to profess my undying love? You want me to suck you off so hard you need a new vessel? You know what I want, what do you want?” You stood to face him, hand dropping to notch your knuckles around his straining cock. “Or rather, what are you going to do about it?”

Dean didn’t flinch, but stepped pointedly forward, looking down his freckled nose at you, curtains of lashes filtering the intensity of his rage. Your hand froze, every part of you clenching in anticipation. “Back on your knees and keep your mouth shut until I say so.”

Dean couldn’t hide his pleasure at the instant drop, pink lips puckering as if drinking in the satisfaction. Once you were resting on your heels, he pulled his cock free, leaving his boxers resting on his hips, holding back his balls. He stroked himself, the angry veins of his forearm mirrored along his shaft. You willed your focus to his navel, too mesmerized by the pull of his grip and the stretching of the slit at his tip. His head red and so lickable, inches from your face.

“Uh, yeah, just look at you, so fucking hungry for this, aren’t you?” Dean hissed through clutched teeth. “Too bad you’ve got my shirt on, otherwise I’d paint those huge tits.”

You squirmed, his filthy words making your folds weep but for the hollowness. You hummed, biting both lips to keep yourself in line. Desperate to fulfill his demand, needing him to be pleased with you, even after hours of giving and taking everything he’d asked for.

“Hold still, and close your eyes for me, darlin’.” Dean’s left hand clapped down, he leaned onto your shoulder and moaned. You tilted your head back, like a plate presented for him to garnish. His seed flowed over you in hot strips while he huffed above you. “You-u-u, open up, nahh–.”

Your eyes and mouth flew open, tongue heavy and thick draped over your bottom lip. Dean held his cock out to you, letting you lap up the last of his spendings. His sticky saltiness mixed with the sweat from his palm and you pulled it heartily into your mouth before he shivered and pushed you off. You licked up what you could on your face, waiting for Dean to tell you to move.

He didn’t. He just tucked himself away, before cradling your face in his strong hands. One thick forefinger swiped through his mess and dragged it over your lips. You took each serving he fed you, core throbbing with each spark of approval in his eyes. At last, he slid two fingers deep in your mouth, letting you take him deeply, satisfying your wanton emptiness as best you could.

“That’s enough. Get cleaned up before I see what Crowley wants,” Dean held out his hand and pulled you to your feet. Your eyes had lusted to black without you noticing and Dean gave you a crook of his brow before leaning back against the bathroom’s doorframe.

“Don’t you mean we?”

“Oh, you think you’re coming with?”

“Yeah, I’m yours, aren’t I?”

He exhaled and dragged his hand through his hair. “If that’s what floats your boat.”

The words buzzed around your head as you bent over to start the water. “Uh, yeah, of course.” You found the ideal temperature under Dean’s lazy stare. “You comin’ or goin’?”

Dean raised his eyebrows before cocking his head to the side. “I’m good.”

You gave him a considering pout before pulling his shirt over your head. “K, well if you get dressed, I’m hungry.”

“Whatever.” Dean grumbled as you closed the curtain, hearing him pad away.

*^*

**The hallway outside Crowley’s Hotel Suite**

****

****

**June 15, 2014 6:12am**

_Dean spun her abruptly, thrusting them both against the door, his hand snaking easily around her waist. He sized up her appearance taking time to appreciate the fear tinged excitement in her eyes. He wanted to keep feeding the momentum but had to get creative for the boss to see the benefit of her tagging along. He kissed her tan skin, feeling the warmth from her quickening pulse. He licked up her jaw line as he slid the card key into the slot. A sound caught in the back of her throat which only pushed him further. He froze, hovering beside her ear as the steadiness of his body absorbed the vibration from CC’s._

__

__

Dean pressed his thigh between hers, waiting until the moment she rolled against him to release the door behind her. Her arms flew to his neck, catching herself just before her ass slid past his knee.

“Crowley, we’re home!” Dean bellowed, pleased with himself before she managed to squeeze his neck in retaliation, strangling back another exclamation. He walked with her sliding down his body, biting that fat bottom lip of hers, just so. He didn’t hesitate, his hands snapping open her jeans as he backed her toward the cushy California King in the back of the room. She popped his collar before letting her hands drop, loosening Dean’s fly for him.

“Get over here,” Dean barked across the hotel suite. Crowley had been perched at the breakfast table, sipping tea while unintentionally watching Dean as he undressed the receptive hunter-housed demon. “Crowley look at her. She wants you.” Dean tugged at the damp lace barely hiding her sex, her back arching and her head lulled back, eyes falling on Crowley, her audience.

Dean’s voice was an amused rumble, Crowley raised an eyebrow, face warring between indifference and boredom. “And?” The King of Hell challenged, sinking lower into his perch, rattling the newspaper.

_“Come on, man, I thought we were going to howl at the moon?” Dean’s eyes sparkled as Crowley’s smirk surfaced. Dean’s thick fingers continued to tease her folds; his eyes locked on to Crowley’s across the room._

*^*

Your core pooled with their banter over your body, Crowley’s dismissal burned your cheeks. The shame and watchful eyes quickly added to the ache in your puckered nipples, the recycled air biting at your flesh from the fancy unseen air conditioning unit.

“I think he wants to watch,” Dean mock-whispered. “Would you like that, Baby? You want your King to watch me fuck you?” He fiercely held your chin as his crystalline eyes shown bright with lust.

“Please?” You moaned, Dean trailed his thumb over your plump bottom lip, the other hand finally sinking into your wetness, two fingers and two knuckles deep. Dean shoved your chin over, palm flattened firmly over the side of your face, forcing you to watch Crowley watch Dean pummel your pussy. Crowley’s dark eyes danced as your eyes blacked out with pleasure. Dean growled above you as he added a third finger, walls stretching and fighting his efforts.

“You’re going to take it, because you want us, don’t you?” Dean whispered so low that Crowley leaned forward to hear him.

“Yes.” You whimpered, tears forming in the corners of your eyes as Dean bent over, biting the very tip of your left nipple. The pain, intensified by the chill, made you cry out. His hot breath spread over your breast before he pulled at the bud with his strong, soft lips. The spirals of pleasure had begun to clench in your lower belly, the hunger in your King’s eyes matched only by the demands of Dean’s hand. You were at their mercy and the center of their desires, you had it all and just as the impossible power trip rippled through your thoughts, you came. Hard and fast on Dean’s crooked digits.

“That’s a slut,” Dean praised you. “Over you go, now. I think if you ask nicely, we’ll get some more of your holes filled today.”

On boneless legs you rolled over, your sensitive walls shook as Dean’s hands brought you up on to all fours. He squared you perfectly at the edge of the bed, so that you both faced Crowley. His rough hands encased your ass cheeks, pulling them open, pinching them, sucking on the tender flesh. As his delicious mouth pulled on your lower back, claiming you with his bruise like marks, Crowley sighed. The sound was faint and breathy, and it drove you wild to have affected him at all.

Dean’s forceful tongue swiped down your crack and deep into your sopping creases. He gathered your want with his mouth before brushing imploring kisses over your tightest entrance. The moisture and hunger drove him onward, he hummed into your ass, preparing you for more. You palmed one tit and then the other, rubbing at the sensitive centers as Crowley’s mouth hung open watching Dean eat your ass raw. You mewled beneath his devilish tongue, and once he worked you back into a shaking mess, he crawled away. Dean’s belt made a dull thunk on the floor as you continued to watch Crowley and touch yourself. Your main hand trailed down into your cunt, your face now flush with the comforter, leaving your ass in the air and hand at a divine angle to drag through your folds and back to tease your throbbing clit.

“Uh-uhn, Baby. I want to be balls deep before you get to cum again.” Dean swatted your ass, chastising you. Crowley swallowed. Suddenly you felt a warm, wet puddle over your hole, Dean’s saliva was thoroughly worked in as he opened you further. “Been wanting this ass for so long.”

Dean’s thick tip teased at your entrance, burning he entered you wide. You bit down on your lips, your eyes closing with the rapturous pain. Dean’s quick intake of breath sent you reeling, his hips locked as he inched slowly into your depths. When his thighs and balls were hot against every part of you they could reach, Dean pulled back out. The stinging recoil of your channel from his penetration was jarring, but he wouldn’t leave it for long. Dean fucked you with hard and deep thrusts. Your body gulped him greedily with each pass, his thickness overflowing you with stimulus. His balls thwacked against your dampness as his fingers dug into the rolls on your sides.

Crowley tisked his tongue, bringing him back into focus, having kept your eyes closed from the overstimulation. When you looked up, the King of Hell stood before you, straining wildly against his tailored suit pants.

“Fuck her with me, Crowley, see how she can take it in the mouth,” Dean’s voice was a husky offer to his friend, a potential challenge just beneath the surface. “Crow-ley!” He demanded now, the command ricocheted through the room as the demon king submitted to his knight, if haughtily.

With a roll of the eyes and a snap of his fingers, Crowley had changed the atmosphere. Instantly he had put on a set of pristine silken pajamas. And Dean was now fully naked, minus the decorative bow tie around his straining throat. Dean’s thickness never left your tightening ass, even as his wingman glibly teased for dominance. Crowley looked down at you, eyes flashing a menacing red as he traced Dean’s trail over your lips with his own thumb.

“That’s a peach,” Crowley cooed down as you flicked your tongue over the pad of his thumb. He slowly pulled his member from the smooth material and nudged the salty tip of his cock to your lips. You stared him down as you dragged your tongue up and over him, silently urging him closer.

Crowley was heavy and smooth as you slowly enveloped him. His hairy, soft body in stark contrast to Dean’s. As Crowley bottomed out in your throat, you felt his cock pulse, as if thickening by sheer force of will. Dean slapped your ass, fucking it harder with rhythmically shallow thrusts. As you clenched around Dean, Crowley’s hands held your face reverentially, the meat of his palms gently squeezing along your jawline. You drooled as you worked him with the little control you had left.

Between Crowley’s unexpected chivalry and Dean’s heavy assault, your mind spun into a maddening slope of lust and overwhelming fulfillment.

*^*

“Are we going to talk about it?” Crowley played with the sword of fruit in his cocktail. Hours ago, you had cleaned up in another room. One as far down the hall from his suite as you could beg from the concierge. The day had fallen off into Happy Hour specials, unfortunately the two-for-one appetizer was too on the nose for you that afternoon. You politely took the seat beside him. With his brashness, you found yourself slightly nervous, but even more so impressed.

“What exactly did you have in mind? Pointers on a better blow job?” The hostility came out harsher than you intended, but the defensiveness wasn’t surprising, for either of you.

He sat smugly and sipped his cocktail, “Please, ‘she wants you’,” he mimicked Dean’s phrase. “You are a better actress than I give you credit for, Y/N, I’ll give you that.”

“I didn’t see you putting up much of a fight,” you retorted, smiling simply at the bartender as she placed a simple cola before you. You didn’t ask how he knew what to order, he knew more than you imagined.

“Yes, well, I think it is safe to say, we are both more accommodating when it comes to Dean. Perhaps more than is necessary.” Crowley muttered.

You took a swift intake of breath and drew it out to make it seem less reactionary and more of a jab. You both knew neither of you were fooling anybody. “Are we having a moment, my Lord?”

“I could atomize you into trillions of useless particles, Love. The only reason I haven’t is because you serve a purpose, and when you stop doing your job, or, more likely, Dean finds another Flavor of the Week, ‘bwushhhh’” Crowley made an explosive gesture with his unfathomable hands.

The moments ticked by, both of you looking forward, unwilling to continue civilly. The carbonation was a biting chill spreading over your tongue and down your throat, much like Crowley had earlier that morning. “I still can’t believe you let him die.”

“Yes, well, better a demon than damnation.” Crowley finally turned his face to give you his best knowing smirk.

“We both know he wouldn’t have agreed to it, if he had had a choice.” Your rage simmered just beneath the surface now; the regret and hopelessness of your transformation was nothing compared to watching something-else be Dean.

“The Mark made that choice for him and he took the Mark, sort of a chicken or egg deal.”

“We both know the egg came first, you ASS! And we both know whose fault this is.”

“Woo-hoo! Let’s get the party started!” Dean’s voice burst through the speakers as he started the next round of his torment for the hapless patrons of the karaoke bar. His drunken swagger paced the stage on the far side of the dimly lit room. He eye-fucked you the entire song, or perhaps, Crowley.

“It might go without saying, but that’s some vessel you have. Be careful, yeah?”

You almost didn’t hear it over the garish synthpop beat, the not so offhanded comment from the demon who had moments earlier threatened your existence. And so, you held back a retort, equally curious and cautious at the gnawing in your stomach.

*^*

_It had become residual noise, a television left on in a backroom, easily forgotten until the voices were raised in anger or exaltation. Chloe remained calm, shuffling through her subconscious while the demon entertained whatever tarnished version of Dean remained. She hadn’t thought it would take this long, nor cost this much to get their hooks in the bastard. But there wasn’t anything that could shake her certainty now. Not counting the moment that Crowley had locked onto her, undressing her like no one ever had. The snapback of her mental kick had floored her longer than she liked. It was best to keep an eye on things within the king’s presence._

__

__

It was a hell of a lot harder to remain objective from this angle.

_Fucking demons._


	18. Bring Him Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: This covers the first two and a half episodes of season 10. I didn’t rehash what the canon gave us, but let you in on where our reader moved through those events in order to be exactly where she is needed to be.
> 
> Warnings: Typical angst, show level violence, demonic phone calls aka blood, the ritual of purified blood aka needles, non-consensual touching, and the rest is too spoilery. Have fun kids! xoxo

**September 22, 2014**

**Glendive, MT**

The stolen SUV stilled with the crunching of gravel, a roadside bar had caught your eye and on the whim that you hadn’t been followed, you pulled over. It was dark and dingy, something you had become intimately used to. The stale beer soaked into the ragged carpeting, a smell you would always associate with that summer, with the countless nights and bar fights the demon that Dean had become had waved off or fucked away. There was a payphone in the hallway between the bathrooms and somehow you were silently hoping he had kept the same number. The coins clunked into place, long and lean in the polished slot. The ancient deep tone of the ring peeled across the ether and then an alias and a generic voicemail continued the one-sided conversation.

You inhaled and replied chunkily, “Sam, it’s me. Or us, well not Dean, but CC. CC and I, both fine, by the way. If you’re free…we should talk.”

*^*

_CC watched her hang up the heavy black phone with a satisfying clink. Her warped image looking back at her through the matte reflection of the disused amenity. She had been hiding out, she knew it and the demon at the wheel had quietly left her to it. Well, she didn’t know what Chloe did, she couldn’t, but the months trying to break through to the real Dean or subdue the demon had been exhausting for them both. Sam’s voice had stirred CC from her subterranean, dulled complacency. This wasn’t just about saving her own skin; it never had been. It was about those boys, those pig-headed jackasses that deserved better than what they had been dealt. Or scammed into. And minimizing Dean’s threat was just a finger in the dam._

_She shuffled through the demon’s recent memories, stretching against the mental atrophy. She felt her leaving Dean and Crowley with some strippers, glancing thrice over her shoulder before ditching through the employee exit and into a bouncer’s ride. She hadn’t driven far, but in an odd spiral, fanning out to shake anyone tailing her. She seemed to be in the clear, CC watched her buy one drink at a time watching the door to the side hallway like a dog waiting for her human to return from war. The phone never rang._

*^*

Sam couldn’t remember the last time he had gone over 100, especially in something other than the Impala. He bit his tongue as the rickety bumper brushed the pavement after a railroad crossing. Cursing, he thanked his paranoia and hadn’t risked the bullseye that any of the vintage cars from the Bunker would have been, for any demon in his path. All those sonsofbitches that had been laying low or living on radio silence since Crowley had taken his brother from his bed. Cowards, the whole damn species. He cased the parking lot before heading into the side entrance, the bar like any other, navigable and unimpressive. There was still a dusting of sulfur on the earpiece of the payphone and not another clue in sight.

He slammed the phone back into place, loud enough to get a begrudging ‘hey’ from the bartender. Who recoiled as Sam spun to glare at her, he gathered himself carefully before ordering food and prodding for the direction CC’s demon may have headed. A half hour later Sam stared past his second beer, unsure if he wanted to crash or get back to the Bunker when a drunk at the bar got his attention, whining about his cheating wife.

**September 24, 2014**

**Another crappy motel**

Crowley hadn’t missed how Dean intentionally never mentioned the dove’s sudden and unforeseen disappearance. Crowley was certain Dean hadn’t killed her himself, fairly certain as he didn’t seem to have lost any of the pent-up energy. Especially after the second mess in Wisconsin, when Crowley had been overly disclosing about the Abaddon supporters that Dean stopped listening. With his close watch, Dean couldn’t have done anything to her too terrible.

It still felt a bit, unceremonious, to be skipping town without her. He had grown accustomed to her banter and she had helped keep him infinitely more contained than the Mark could. Without her to help Dean take his edge off, in any number of ways, Crowley pondered what wouldn’t set him off. Ever the businessman, he secured his asset, sliding into the backseat of the car beside Dean as another minion drove them to the next neon plastered cesspool. A jolt of excitement struck a nerve within the King; now it was time for a real howl.

**October 6, 2014**

**Colorado**

You both surfaced in the days following the strip club and the subsequent unanswered phone call. You tried to ignore CC’s intrusiveness, as the memories of the summer months were sorted and filed under constant static in the back of your mind. She was still a hunter, and to her Dean was a target, despite his meatsuit and the taste of him coating every recollection. You left her to her schemes, while mindlessly driving through the mountains and enjoying the scenery you could only imagine in Hell. It was as close to therapeutic something like you could muster and it only made you frustrated with the path you had taken.

The distance did wonders for your ability to forget the severity of his actions. Your struggling masochistic side had taken you down a steep path that fell away into the oblivion of guilt. Was it all your fault? If you hadn’t taken over CC’s body could she have stopped Dean before he let Crowley swindle him into taking on the Mark convincing him to kill Abaddon for him? If you hadn’t distracted Dean from Sam and the Angel problems, would he have ended up on the wrong end of Metatron’s blade? If you hadn’t needed him would he be better off? Had your selfish, imbalanced, twisted nature damned him? You reasoned against yourself on and off as the scenery flitted past, the lush greens soaking in their final triumphs before the autumnal cascade of color. Everything felt impossibly perfect and you worked your jaw against the need for destruction, because at least you could do that properly. You took the winding roads at whatever pace your foot found, letting the pine and the thin air fill your lungs as CC chanted at you to turn around. To go back. To demon up and bring him to justice or the end of an exorcism.

“Fuck off.”

You felt her roll her eyes at you and you stared into the rearview mirror, challenging while unimpressed. You headed back north, slowly trudging out of the pity party. You slipped around an Oldsmobile going ten under, clipping their sideview mirror off with a semi-pleasing thunk. This is what you did now: wallow in self-doubt and cost geezers their pension checks in repair bills. You slammed the gas and drove toward the only thing that made your heart race like it would stop at any moment. Back to the only being that made you feel death had been worth it.

They were gone. Not a lackey or a forwarding address in sight. You knew what to do, but it made CC nauseous as the intent sparked. It was your turn to roll your eyes. Carefully you moved to the back office and found a particularly sweaty thick necked manager to toss into a bathroom. His beady eyes bulged as best they could against his caterpillar inspired brows once you drew the knife. The generic brown towels quickly plugged the sink to allow his blood to fill the basin. Once you felt enough of the ruby liquid had pooled below, you spoke into the depths.

“Crowley, you sonofabitch, where did you go?”

*^*

The blonde left the hotel with tears welling in her eyes, she didn’t even look at you as you blatantly watched from the fender of the latest car you had lifted. You swung your arms widely and entered without warning. He smelled of an ocean of booze, musty sheets and sulfur-tinged sweat. Once he could focus on your face an overplayed laugh erupted shallowly from his chest.

“Well shit, Crowley had that revolving door installed after all. Welcome back, uh, whoever you are. Perfect timing, cuz that one just got all sentimental and I had to let her down easy.”

“Except you didn’t.”

“Of course not, what do I look like?”

“Three sheets to the wind and still wearing your boots, must have been some night.”

Dean cocked his head, kicking his legs over the side of the bed. He tried to stand but thought better of it. You paced, picking up some of his clothes that had been left to clutter the floor. He sipped some water from the nightstand. You couldn’t remember a time he had ever drank water in his life, apparently CC could, but that had been because he had been refused a beer from his dad. Good, little shit deserves some purifying forces in his system.

Your hand brushed over the bag beside his new duffel, which had quietly been awaiting your return. You glanced over your shoulder at Dean who just waved off your touched expression. He didn’t ask where you’d been, and you didn’t offer. Slowly you helped him get naked and into the shower. He was too drunk to even try and put on the charms, but he shoved you a bit to make himself feel better about it. It was all too much: walking into the tangle of his exposed nerves, the thoughtfulness and the swift return to degradation. You needed some air, so you walked back into the night to allow him to sober up, however briefly. When you returned, he was gone, but the bags stayed behind.

**October 14, 2014**

**The bar with the tiniest umbrellas**

The kiss-asses in suits loomed like Agent Smith wannabes, one was barely free from the Axe-body spray of his vessel’s frat boy days. You didn’t care for business and you certainly didn’t want them looking down their noses at you and how your presence was wasting “valuable” time. Instead of engaging them in soul conversion percentages, you ordered another drink and one for Crowley, for whenever he decided to show. Mending bridges was unbearably necessary now that Sam was back in the picture. You felt the mortal coil tightening around your insides, be it from CC’s impatience or the inevitability of being what you were: a demon in love with a hunter. Self-preservation was making you even more cagey than before you had ditched the dynamic duo.

Crowley strolled in with the sound of welcome bells, a far off look in his eyes, the First Blade tight in his grasp. Heckle and Jeckle started off right away, but he ignored their pleas and took the seat next to you. “Somebody came crawling back with her tail between her legs.”

“Where is he?”

“With his brother, no thanks to you.”

“Is he–? Is everyone alright?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and clenched his jaw, turning to play with the many pokey things in his ornate beverage. “I thought we had ironed out the kinks, once you left it was just the King and his trusty Knight. But he is no longer the brave little soldier daddy shaped him into, now he is a loose canon and, God willing, Sam is the only one who can sort that clusterfuck.”

“If he doesn’t kill him first,” you hissed into your shot glass.

“If you’re so worried about Moose, why don’t you scurry along. They’ll be home before you can find another payphone.”

You side-eyed the pair trying to interject, they each took a step back as you pushed out the stool and stood up. There was a lot you could have said in that moment, but none of it could fix what Dean had broken, especially not what was left of Crowley’s heart. Yours was all you could divine and that only left you chasing your tail. Crowley needed to move on, and Hell needed to be run, whether it by force or commerce. When the unique tingling started in your gut you smiled in gentle gratitude, his hand came up and you were gone before you even heard the snap.

*^*

**‘Soul Survivor’**

**The Bunker’s dungeon**

“Well, aint that the whore calling the kettle black,” Dean raised his eyebrows, accenting his demon pitch eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam huffed.

“You gonna tell him, or show him,” Dean stared you down until a goosebump-inducing sneer spread across his features. “Miss Collins is not home right now, can rando demon bitch take a message?”

You tried not to flinch, but the insult stacked on top of the unceremonious reveal left you feeling exposed, dirty even. “Yeah, yeah, big deal, jackass,” you snipped, jutting your chin at Dean’s restrained form. “I’d worry about my own self if I was you.”

“No, CC wouldn’t let that happen, not after all those months,” Sam gaped, he was a better liar than you thought. “She wouldn’t let something like you back in unless you forced her.” Maybe he wasn’t completely acting.

Dean started laughing. “You guys wanna take a minute? I mean it’s always a treat watching the grown ups fight, but—”

“You, shut up,” Sam growled at Dean. “And you,” he hissed over his shoulder, “stop talking, you make me sick.”

“Don’t get all self-righteous on me Sam, I mean, all of us here have fucked a demon. Or two,” you left off on a sigh. The younger Winchester recoiled; mouth pinched as if you had slapped him across the face.

“She’s got you there, don’t she?” Dean smirked now. You had grown to hate what he had become, even if he was backing you up.

“Are you working for Crowley?! Have you been–” Sam grabbed the bottle of Holy Water in his good hand, pointing the opening at you while he focused his tunnel vision.

“Not a Crowley stooge,” you held up your hands in surrender, trying not to roll your eyes as Sam’s authoritative side took over. “I don’t have any ulterior motives, I’m not Ruby. I didn’t have an endgame.”

“Just stop bringing her up! This isn’t about who fucked whom, this is about getting my brother back. Is Chloe even alive in there?” Sam’s voice leveled, how he remained focused at all, stumped you.

You nodded. “She’s fine and she is very proud of you right now, if you must know,” you lied to continue the dramatics, ensuring Dean’s over confidence before the plan could continue.

“Awww, wittle Sammy has a cheerleader,” Dean sing-songed.

“Shut up.” Sam snapped. He started sorting through the bags of blood, grabbing a syringe before turning to you. “Are you going to help? Or do I have to exorcise you for good this time?” He spun towards Dean and squared his shoulders. “Buckle up.”

“Sammy, you know I hate shots.”

“I hate demons,” Sam said sadly before tossing holy water in Dean’s face, the demonic grunt escaping his lips as Sam sunk the needle in his brother’s arm. Dose one had been administered. “Look, we got a whole bunch more of these to go. You could make it a lot easier on yourself.”

Sam paused, the olive branch dangling between them. Then Dean shifted, the evil within him fighting the purified blood, impossible bestial cries rang from his body. You swallowed, dumbfounded and truly terrified of him for the first time since the farmhouse. Thankfully, he was restrained. You watched Sam take in Dean’s torment while you waited for the next move.

*^*

It had been hours, Sam sometimes insisting on going in alone, sometimes not bothering to even acknowledge you were tagging along. You couldn’t remember the last time you were this tired: thoughts muted, eyes floating in their sockets, fuzzy limbs kind of tired. But you didn’t dare risk sleep to leave Dean truly alone with Sam, especially an injured Sam. It was during a solo dosage when you started another pot of coffee and turned to head back toward the library when a massive hand clamped down over your mouth. Instinct kicked in and you pushed back with every physical or psychic force you could muster.

Instantly you were free, a large crash and strangled moan cut off behind you. Sam dragged himself off the floor with fire in his eyes.

“He’s out,” he whispered, pulling himself to his feet. You took him in, pale and gawky, CC’s alarm threading through your veins with every heartbeat.

“Do you have your knife?”

Sam sniffed and nodded, chewing on the thought of stabbing his brother. You silently worked out the flanking of searching the Bunker, letting Sam take the lead. CC started to buckle in, her thoughts louder than they had been in months. You reached out with your senses, trying to feel him, but what warding there was against you was enough to dull his resonance. You unsheathed CC’s knife and started moving five paces behind Sam. He grabbed the spare keys from a drawer when an unmistakable voice rattled through the halls.

“Come on, Sammy! Don’t you want to hang out with your big brother? Bring the bitch along, hell we can share her.”

Your insides froze with the menace in his voice. Then you were kicked out of the driver’s seat with a speed and finality you couldn’t comprehend.

*^*

CC had let this go on long enough; she shook out her hands and settled back into control over her body like an alumni walking the well-worn halls of their education, both foreign and familiar with an undercurrent buzzing beneath the surface. She spun her blade and tossed it to the opposite hand, a once flawless motion was now almost too easy. She snorted back a giggle at the feeling of being real and present once more, like a chest full of fresh air and warm laundry all in one go. Then reality pressed in and she leaped into action.

The instant the emergency lights flared overhead; CC bolted back the way you came knowing that Dean knew where the breakers were. Sam followed none the wiser as Dean continued to mock praise him. One second, he was an arm’s length behind her and the next he was gone. Quietly, she back tracked as Sam slammed the door to the Electrical room and locked it.

“Are you serious?!” CC gaped at Sam as he stood listening through the door, knife at the ready but still so optimistic.

“… I know you’re still in there somewhere. Just let me finish the treatments. Dean?”

The first chunk of the door flew at Sam’s face, sending him on his heels and into CC’s bubble.

“You act like I want to be cured! Personally, I like the disease.” Dean’s eyes glinted through the holes he had pounded through the door. Gaps between the boards like a toothpick prison crumbling with each swing.

“I don’t want to have to use this blade on you!” Sam was desperate, begging and it hurt CC to witness it. He was the little brother again and though she hadn’t known him as a child, she knew the real Dean would never be able to dismiss his brother’s pleas. She pulled Sam away from the line of fire, readying her own knife and bracing herself for his inevitable escape. “No, what are you doing?! You can’t use that on him!”

“Shut up, Tweedle Dumb, just let a girl work.”

“Chloe?”

She cocked her head and locked eyes on the thing bursting from the door: show time.

“Well, well, well, look who wants to play hero.” Dean swung again, punctuating his taunts with his hammer. “It’s my lucky day. I’ve been blessed, because there is just enough demon in me to kill your meatsuit, finally free you up to be all you. Can. Be. Then, I’m gonna kill my brother and you’re gonna watch.”

CC felt Sam dive behind her as Dean stepped through the remnants of the door. He glanced impatiently as she mirrored his movements, shielding Sam without giving Dean a path. “You know what, asshole? You can take your threats and shove ‘em. You wanna dance? Let’s dance, just me and whatever you are anymore.”

Sam raced back to the dungeon, searching for anything that could give them the upper hand. Sam didn’t want to risk them killing each other in his absence, but he hoped their slightly even footing would buy him the time he needed.

“Hiya, Chloe, nice to see you again. She smoke out? Couldn’t handle Sam’s bitch face?”

“Nope, got her packed away for safe keepin’, too bad you can’t say the same.” CC shifted her weight, swiping widely and slicing the edge of his shirt. Dean caught her by the wrist, twisting her knife hand above their heads.

“You’re missing my point. This? Lean, mean Dean? Here to stay, Sweetheart.” She glanced up at his grip on her and her weapon and without flinching she kicked out his knee, throwing them both against the wall she broke out of his grasp, the hammer thudded to the floor. He grasped her hair in one deft fist fall, before kneeing her in the kidney. She buckled, falling against him. Dean stepped back and kicked her once in the side until she fell, curling in on herself. Carefully he kneeled at her side, with the hand still in her hair he lifted her ear to his lips and whispered, “stay down or I’ll put you down.”

CC thrashed against him, hurling herself against him as hard as she could. She managed to rock him onto his ass, but he took her roots with him, pulling with all of his might. She screamed as he groaned in satisfaction. She jabbed him in the ribs with the handle of her blade, when he spun them both. His thick thighs pinned her beneath him, as she tried to flip him off of her chest. Dean rolled his hips, his cock rutting against her tits as he held her wrists, twisting them down. She caved on the edge of a fracture, moving the joints with his control, unwilling to risk that sort of handicap. With her knife lost in the tussle, Dean inhaled deeply and grinned down at CC in sickening triumph.

CC swallowed as she felt the rigidness in his jeans, he leaned in, crushing her with his weight, her breath pushed from her lungs like the final tuft of bubble wrap. He watched her struggle; her eyes bulged, and color left her face. Dean rocked into her soft breasts, relishing in the lethargic shift of her weight beneath him. Finally, the creak and crunch of her bones rippled from the force of his increased strength. As the light faded from her eyes an acidic cascade fell over his head and back. He howled, digging his heels into her ribcage, which granted reprieve from the pressure on her chest.

“Let her go!”

Another barrage of holy water hit Dean and he fell to the side of CC’s body, boots kicking wildly as he tried to stand. He screamed and lunged for the hammer. Sam held his knife up, terrified at what he had to do.

“Well look who decided to join us. Ready to play, Sammy?”

Sam stepped forward, trying not to be distracted with the way Chloe’s body remained unnaturally still. Dean looked him dead in the eyes and jumped forward, psyching Sam a little and then swung, landing the hammer in the plaster just behind where Sam’s face had been. The Kurdish blade kissed Dean’s throat, but he knew he hadn’t lost.

“Well, look at you. Do it,” Dean taunted. He watched Sam’s surprise melt into submission. As Sam dropped the blade and Dean let his eyes flood black, three things happened: Dean stepped toward Sam in certain victory, Chloe gasped to life in their periphery, a startling golden glow radiating over her chest and neck and Castiel’s arms caged Dean in place, the power of his stolen grace containing the demon.

“It’s over. Dean, it’s over.”


	19. The Ending You Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Dean’s back and ready to set things right, TFW pushes CC to her limit, a telling flashback and the brothers get back to basics.
> 
> Warnings: Possession, restraints, angst.
> 
> (Don't worry, it isn't the actual ending)

**Soul Survivor Continued**

“What the hell are we doing to him, Cas? I mean, even after I gave him all that blood, he still said he didn’t want to be cured, that he didn’t want to be human.” CC watched them from her perch against the table, the angel Castiel carefully listened to Sam’s worries.

“Well, I see his point. You know only humans can feel real joy, but also such profound pain. This is easier.” The silence loomed as they watched over Dean’s unconscious form.

CC sighed before disagreeing. “It’s really not though.” She stood, eyes remaining on Dean while her companions shared a look, uncertain with where her thoughts were heading. “He’s not in control even if he doesn’t have a moral compass. He was spiraling with Crowley.”

“Chloe?” Cas’s voice was deep and tentative.

She closed her eyes against his caution, exasperated with being treated as a threat. “Yeah?”

“You’re still possessed. How do you feel?”

“Like I got the shit kicked out of me? You? Borrowed grace as good as the real deal?”

Sam’s brows popped up at the jab, but he waited for Cas to answer.

“It will do. I’m just curious, how you’re—”

“Guys?” Sam’s voice broke their tense chat, quickly he unscrewed the flask of holy water. Dean was waking up again, after the last dose had knocked him out. He opened his eyes, which drained from ebony to their usual whites, pupils and irises all back in place. Chloe didn’t need to get confirmation from another holy bath, she could see that the demon had been turned. Dean’s essence filled his body, snug as last year’s bathing suit after the holidays. A smile of relief floated up to Sam, while Cas’s eyes remained squinted in apprehension.

“You look worried, fellas,” Dean quipped, his breath still ragged in his throat.

Sam tossed out the flask, coating his brother in the final test. When no one flinched, everyone let out their collective sigh of relief. “Welcome back, Dean.”

*^*

Chloe didn’t know what to do with the sudden calm that flooded her system. They had cured Dean, though the Mark remained silently mocking her from his forearm. A seemingly impossible outcome, especially as the fever spiked and he was more unconscious than awake. She settled in the library across from Sam, Castiel joining them with obvious reservation. Dean had taken a nosedive into his memory foam, barely having looked her in the eye. She hovered in the oasis of whiskey and an exhausted stupor, Sam keeping pace alongside her.

They talked quietly, the laughter bubbling up in spurts, as if the weeks between her latest possession and the days they worked in tandem to find Dean hadn’t happened. As if Sam wasn’t still down an arm and she hadn’t survived, everything she had. They both felt it coming, Cas’s eyes stayed on the polished wood as he spoke, breaking the small window of unquestioned triumph.

“Chloe, what happened after what Dean did—Do you know what you were doing?”

She raised her eyes and lolled her head from the angel to Sam and back to Cas in deep dramatic rolls. “For starters, it’s CC, which I’ve told you before. Why don’t you tell me how much you know about me, Cas?”

Cas’s gaze skirted to Sam and Sam shrugged.

“We know you’re not human.” Sam cleared his throat. “Uh, while you were comatose, I had Cas check you over and, well, he wasn’t sure—”

“You contain heavenly power, but you’re not an angel.” Cas squinted, again.

“And you’re asking if I know what I am or are you still trying to figure it out on your own?”

“Kinda both?” Sam huffed.

“And how can you be possessed? Is the demon biding her ti—”

“She’s in timeout, I needed to be the one to take Dean on. So, I tapped in. She’s not a threat, guys.”

Sam and Cas shared another look, Sam spun his tumbler between his finger and thumb on the smooth library table. The silence became deafening.

“Look, you guys don’t know what we’ve been through. What she’s been through to get him home. Like it or not, she’s not your enemy.”

“She tried to run me over with a truck.” Cas ignored CC while imploring Sam, whose cheeks were pink beneath his glazed eyes.

“Yeah, well, you took something from her, apparently. I can’t see everything, but she considers you a thief.” CC poured the end of the bottle into her glass, tossing it back before Sam could complain. “If the third degree is over, I’d like to crash. Man do I miss that bed.”

She ruffled Sam’s hair, which he half-heartedly dodged, before she shuffled down the hallway. The heavy stares weighing on her back until she could shake them off with a swift slam of her former bedroom door.

“Don’t, Cas,” Sam snipped, barely audible.

“You realize that one problem is solved, but at least another three remain?” Cas leaned across the table, resting his forearms against the tabletop. “Dean is no longer a demon, that’s true. But the Mark of Cain, that, he still has and sooner or later that’s gonna be an issue. Not to mention we have something that shouldn’t exist, containing powers she doesn’t understand in the blast range.”

“What are you saying Cas? That Dean’s the red button and CC’s the nuke?”

“I’m saying, that we need to eliminate all the threats before we truly celebrate.”

*^*

**The next afternoon**

Dean came to in his own bed, still clothed and with a vicious throbbing in his neck, knee and forearm. Thoughts and sensations melted into the haze of rebirth. He sat up, shaky and justifiably uncomfortable with himself. He went through the motions, showering and sauntering into the kitchen for coffee, despite having missed the breakfast hour by half a day. Someone had left out a plate of bacon from which Dean quickly pried the dried strips from the paper towels surrounding them; it was better than he could have hoped for. He licked his fingers of the salty grease when a poorly timed greeting from Cas broke into his quiet return to his creature comforts.

“Hello Dean.”

Dean closed his eyes before he turned around, holding the coffee mug in his hand as if it were a lifeline. “Mornin’.”

“It’s quarter to three.”

“It’s morning somewhere.”

“I am aware of time zones, Dean, however confusingly this country decides to divide them.”

Dean huffed in amusement; somethings managed to stay the same in his absence. “Hey, man, thanks for stepping in when you did. D’you see Sam? He want a divorce?”

“Sam knows that whatever you said and did, that, that wasn’t really you. It certainly wasn’t all you.”

“I tried to kill him Cas. I probably did kill CC, if she wasn’t still demon armor.”

“We need to talk about that.” Dean held his hand palm side up as he sipped his coffee, waiting, Cas bit his lips eyes heavy with the annoyance at Dean’s indifference. “She’s still possessed.”

Dean looked to the floor and weighed his thoughts with a bob of his head. “Kind of surprised you guys waited for me to come to.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Mind?” Dean’s brow furrowed. “I was ready to off the damned thing before my sulfur and eye job.” He gestured with his hand indicating all of his body. “Now that I’m restored to factory settings shouldn’t change what we do. Exorcize it. And while you’re still around, you can heal her.”

“It’s not that simple. She insists that the demon isn’t a threat.”

“And you think that’s CC talking? Demons lie, Cas. We’ve all been there.” Dean set his cup on the counter and walked toward Castiel, he corralled Cas into the hallway checking both directions before continuing. “What’d Sam say?”

“He just wanted to get drunk.”

Dean walked carefully toward CC’s room. “Yeah, well, can’t blame him there. She still around?”

Cas gave Dean his most annoyed glare before hissing at him. “Yes, Dean, we didn’t let the demon-possessed, hy-, woman, escape.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, unsure of what had made the angel trip over his words. With a curl of his bottom lip and absolutely no ceremony, Dean walked into CC’s room. And instantly froze.

*^*

Dean burst in with Castiel on his heels; all CC could think about was how much softer he looked. How very breakable he was. It was almost like everything had been a fever dream until she really looked at them. Watching their true colors bleed through, reluctant yet battle ready, a desaturated combination lining their faces.

“What the hell?! I mean, glad to have you back and all, but knock much?”

“I didn’t know he would just walk in,” Cas offered.

Dean pulled back. “I’m sorry, did you want to do this later? Got somewhere better to be?”

“Dean.”

“Yeah, Dean, exactly what are we doing?”

“Cas, go get Sam.”

“There’s something—”

“It’s fine, Castiel. Dean wants some alone time, he’s back from war after all.” CC watched Dean twitch and swallow against her tone. That mossy stare asked more than he could put to words. CC felt the impasse as she dropped down on the bed, her hand falling habitually over her knife while Dean strolled over to the desk chair. “What’s this all about?”

“Chloe, I-” Dean had settled backwards on the seat, forearms draped along the back. “What are you doing?”

“Besides arguing with your angel buddy and stopping you from putting some serious hardware through your brother’s skull?”

Dean wasn’t amused, though his concern shined brighter than his annoyance. “Why the hell are you still walking around like that? This is you I’m talking to, I can tell. So, tell me, why?”

“Did they tell you why they are so worried about me all of the sudden? Did that angel tell you what’s got his haunches up?” CC waited, seeing the easy smile slip on to Dean’s face.

“Because, you’re willing housing a demon, Cease!”

“No, it’s because I’m not even human, DEAN. Castiel and Sam are all up each other’s asses because I shouldn’t exist.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Hey, guys?” Sam’s greeting intruded around their stalemate. Dean rocked back down on to all four legs of the chair while Cas closed the bedroom door behind them.

“Get out.”

“Chloe, it’s for the best.” Sam failed diplomacy.

“Just slow your roll! What the hell do you mean, you’re not even human?”

“Cas thinks she some kind of hybrid.”

“Hybrid of what?”

“Human and, well, Angel,” Cas looked painfully at CC now, her anger tight in her jaw and her shame burning in her eyes. “But in a way I have never seen.”

“Your dad’s an angel?! Who?” Dean stood, pushing past the desk chair after CC who dove for the door. Sam had it covered before she could land three steps. Castiel’s hand heavy on her shoulder.

“Do you know who it was?”

“I don’t have a father!” CC shrieked at the ceiling through clenched teeth, her fists tight at her sides. She folded them over her chest, trying to hold herself together; barely stopping herself from throwing punches. “Just leave me alone, if I you don’t want me here, that’s fine; I’ll go. Just stop this, for your own sakes, stop asking.”

“Whoa-kay?” Dean held up his hands, watching Sam and Cas suspiciously until they backed away in the little space between them and the door. “Gonna try and not take that as a threat, Cease, but I’m gonna need you to trust us too.”

“How am I supposed to trust any of you?” CC stamped her feet at herself; her voice had cracked, revealing her soft underbelly to her sudden captors.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice dropped, “give and take, alright?”

“Dean—” Sam started, uncertain.

“It’ll be fine,” Dean snapped, not bothering to look back to his brother. “You gotta let us get that demon out of you, Cease. Let us send her packing and we’ll stop asking questions, alright?”

CC shook her head almost imperceptibly, her tears brimming in hot puddles, sloppy and uneven.

“Alright?” Dean asked Sam and Cas, his no-nonsense face demanding their allegiance.

Sam started the chant as CC sputtered. Dean stepped forward, catching her hands and folding them between their chests. Cas grabbed her from behind, arms tight around her waist, much like how he held back Dean the night before. She looked up into Dean’s eyes, pleading with him, “please, don’t. Not like this. Dean, please?!”

“Shhhh, it’s gonna be alright. She’ll be fine and you can be free.”

“Don’t do this to us, Dean. Please. No. I am saying no!”

Dean inhaled sharply, pinning CC’s face to his chest as Sam continued. Part of her wanted to keep him close, to be held and reassured, but that part burned away with her rage. The parts of her that wouldn’t be taken from again, not while she was in control and not while she had a voice to protest. She thrashed against Cas’s arms; her head fought Dean’s embrace.

“Get off of me!”

They were all thrown apart, sailing in all directions: Cas remained upright, but his arms were lax at his sides. Sam was rocked into the door, eyes searching for Dean, while Dean had whipped back, taking half the desktop on to the bed with him. CC stood before them with a golden aura hovering over her head and chest. As Sam started barking the final lines of the exorcism, her eyes popped open, bright amber pupils against a milky gray sclera.

“Sammy,” Dean warned.

CC dropped. Sam finished the chant as they circled her once more, cautious with the lack of the telltale black smoke. Cas grabbed Dean’s arm before he could reach CC, shaking his head up at Sam who loomed over their crouching forms.

“Chloe?” Cas asked gently.

“Where is she?” Muttering, CC sat up. Slowly groaning as if she had just been shaken from the depths of sleep.

“Cease?” Dean hitched off Cas’s grasp, falling to his knees. His hand cupped her jaw, pulling her face up for further inspection. “Hey now, you okay?”

“Nooooooo,” her voice broke out in a choked sob. “She’s gone and I don’t know what happened! Dean, what’d we do?!”

Sam whispered into Cas’s ear, on another planet from where Dean let Chloe wail on the floor. “Where’d it go?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Any guesses?”

Cas stared back at Sam; volumes of possibilities shared between them.

“What did you do?!” CC demanded from no one more than herself. She had reached hysteria; she lolled forward, resting her temple against the cool floor, shoving and kicking Dean away whenever he came too close.

*^*^*

**June 5, 2014**

**The Bunker**

_Sam hadn’t left CC with you easily, but she wasn’t one to be swayed by his concern. She knew what stood inside the tiny Desi girl before her. Once the overprotective failed legacy of Azazel closed the false wall behind her, CC stormed forward, squaring her shoulders._

_“Funny how demons can get into places they’re not supposed to. You. Crowley. Waltzing into one of the most secure buildings in the world as if you owned the place. He side-stepped Sam’s summons and made off with Dean like a thief in the night. Something tells me you could have come back at any time. Could have taken me while I was out cold. But you didn’t. You too scared? No, you were licking your wounds, huh, slut? Dean didn’t want you outside of me and now you are trying to get whatever you can?”_

_The wall of your invisible prison stopped you from reciprocating her words all over her face. Your eyes burned black and the snarl turned into a growl as you slammed into the wall in frustration. “You’re just bitter I fucked him better than you ever could.” You let out a rattling laugh, “Hell, Cease, would you have even gotten involved with a Winchester if I hadn’t started scratching that itch for you? Just when did you start caring about him as more than a fellow hunter? Huh? Ever wonder why?”_

_That shut her up._

_But not for long. She thumbed the handle of her sheathed knife and peered down her nose at you. “How do I know you won’t kill me once you get him back?”_

_“You don’t. Just like I don’t know you won’t kill me once I bring him back.”_

_The moment dragged on, an out of body experience for you must have been something all together more uncomfortable for her._

_“Just promise me one thing. When the time comes, you have to let me take back control. I can’t explain why, but… you owe me.”_

_Arguable. “And what time is that?”_

_“I don’t know yet.”_

_“So, you’re winging it?”_

_“No, you are.” She dropped in a single motion, knife already in hand to scratch the paint off the damp cement. The barrier instantly stopped humming and you felt fresh air fill your lungs. With a rushed exhale you left your current vessel for one with a little more fight in her._

*^*

**October 22, 2014**

**An unforgiving place**

It was almost pathetic how expected it was. The trip, however unconventional, was essentially a flight home. An assault of color and stratus; atmosphere, vegetable, mineral, ether, void and then the source: Hell. Your essence hummed and throbbed, falling back into place, atom by atom into your true shape. Long, lean and barbed, teeth and eyes sharp as you gathered yourself. Your feet were held in place, locked in the rotting debris of a vast cavern. Looking toward the ceiling, your insides swam and pitched, a thick smoke rolled through burning with purifying scents, just out of your grasp.

It was a lost-and-found agony, somehow made new. You pulled and pushed, kicking against the muck with all your strength. Yet you remained tethered by refuse, completely alone.

‘I guess that was the right time,’ you thought sardonically. CC had been threatened and still she tried to protect you. How had they done it? A part of you wanted to blame the angel, but you couldn’t make anything stick. Your thoughts swam with those last moments on Earth and just when you came to Dean’s face everything went dark.

*^*^*

**The Bunker**

CC passed out after they had put her through their tests, bitter tears drying alongside the unspoken accusations that loomed behind heavy eyes. She was clean: celestially flavored and now demon free. Their deep voices were kept low in the hallway, but even whispers carried at those octaves. The words that reached her fitful sleep were broken, monotone and foreign. The spells wafted through the Bunker, banishing and confusing all manner of creatures.

Sigils burned brightly as Sam and Dean worked to rekindle their protections.

“How did we miss this?”

“Well, Men of Letters’ fail safes were put in place decades before we showed up,” Sam explained. “I guess, we aren’t the only ones who work both sides of the aisle to meet an end.”

“Huh, still kind of annoying that Crowley could comeback whenever he wanted.”

“Well, King of Hell could have had something to do with his case.”

“But there was Gadreel.”

“And Cas, Dean. All beings that shouldn’t have been able to get in here without us. We were just oblivious, especially to those closest to us.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffed, dabbing his paintbrush back into the gummy concoction before spreading it out in overlapping arches. “Wait, are we going to have to formally invite Cas in each time now?”

“No, man, we’re just resetting them. Once he is invited back in, he’s clearance is reinstated, so to speak.”

“Got it.”

Sam watched his brother, pretending to be studying the next incantation. Dean hadn’t answered many questions since he’d been cured, especially involving his time with the demon and Chloe. Her possession and whatever depravity that had passed between them had forged another cross on his brother’s buckling back. Dean was where he was supposed to be, at Sam’s side, ready to face the next hurtle. Though it was clear that his thoughts were anywhere but. Sam swore to make coming back easy for Dean; forgoing the usual cycle of nonchalance and prodding that led to annoyance.

“What would you say to a road trip?”

*^*^*


	20. Off Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes face to face with his humanity. Dean and CC start to sort through what's happened so far. Our reader keeps on keeping on. Conversations are cut short.

**November 26, 2014**

**Crowley’s Earth Operations, Throne Room**

There were things he had seen that would make a sane man rip his eyes out. But staring at the bruised and chained form of his mother was not something he wished to unsee. Crowley was the King of Hell, Master of the Crossroads and owner of the First Blade. He was the most powerful demon in existence. This shouldn’t be a problem, however powerful she was, she remained his prisoner. The undying resentment he felt towards her was only paralleled by a little boy’s need for his mother to love him.

His time with Dean must have kept him soft. He had been off the blood for months; this was just a momentary relapse. Crowley couldn’t be having, sentiments, about his whore witch mother. Could he?

**November 30, 2014**

**The Bunker**

The weeks since both CC and Dean had been purged of their demonic sides had fostered an indelicate dance. She remained in the Bunker despite the devastation she felt in the aftermath. Guilt, fear and grief bristled her already brusque demeanor. Once Castiel left with Hannah, the outward animosity dropped to a low simmer. She hadn’t divulged her spirit walk or that the knowledge of her origins had left her vulnerable to both Heaven and Hell outside of their heavily warded safehouse. It wasn’t their burden to bear. All the while, CC hadn’t felt the same, with either Winchester, as her stay lengthened; safety was enough for her to attempt to remain on their good sides.

Dean was unapologetic about the whole thing; CC shouldn’t have been possessed and somehow, their efforts had remedied the situation. He found himself speeding back to Kansas after the old case of Bobby’s, not realizing he was rushing home because he had somebody there waiting. He felt oddly rejuvenated after ending the shifter and he couldn’t wait to give CC all the twisted details of that mess of a family. Just the thought of her grinning had his foot leaning heavier.

That reunion was over and settled, but Dean had yet to earn much enthusiasm beyond a half-hearted greeting from CC. Strategically, Sam left them alone, unless they were heading out for a case. He knew they had to work through things, and nothing suggested they were done with each other; he gave them a respectable distance. They were just too damn stubborn for their own good.

“You know we really could have used you on this one,” Dean strongly suggested while he pealed his coat off, frustration reigniting on his bruised face.

“I don’t know why I need to say this again, but I am not hunting with you. It’s too dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, we lost a damn powerful witch and a lot of people died in the process.”

CC didn’t rise to the challenge, leaving the brothers quietly. She came back to the Library with the first aid kit, looking over Dean’s face as Sam settled down with his laptop across the table. “You guys made it out, that’s what matters.”

“Real nice, Chloe,” Sam muttered.

Dean pushed her hand away from his face to glare up at her. “What other people don’t matter? Are you just giving up on ever doing your job? On who you are, on what your family taught you?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” CC warned. “Can I finish?”

Dean didn’t answer, but sat still as she patched him up, leaving him with a bag of peas and a cold beer to judge in her absence.

Later that night, Dean was drawn down the hallway by the soft sound of singing. He knew Sam sometimes left music on, but it was too gentle and haunting to be a recording. The closer he got Dean realized it was more of a chant, the words lifting slightly before falling back to the beginning of the recitation. It was Chloe in a melancholy drone to the night air; words he would never grasp, but a feeling that struck him like a forgotten chord in the harmony.

CC sang out to those that went before her, those that couldn’t be saved. The regret and fear raced through her until tears burned in her eyes. She prayed for bravery and for guidance, to be wholly herself again, and to be the granddaughter and hunter she once was. As the air cleared and her voice ached from her efforts her unseen audience became clear. She wasn’t sure how she could sense him now, but there was no doubt that Dean was resting against her bedroom door.

“You can come in now, Dean. If you want.” She packed away her incense and bowl set, as Dean entered like a kid late to finals.

“Everything alright?” She gave him a look to not ask stupid questions. He watched as she dropped her eyes, darting to nowhere in particular for as long as she could; everywhere but back at him. “Hey, about how I snapped on you about Rowena? It’s just, I know you. You’re happiest when you’re giving it your all. This, hiding gig, it doesn’t suit you.”

Dean dropped onto her bed, casually throwing his hands behind his head as if he were waiting for her psychoanalysis and not a rebuttal. She leaned against the desk, one leg bent as she peered over at him, the Mark of Cain peeking out from his rolled-up sleeve. “Who ever said we’re allowed what makes us happy? That’s not a hunter’s lot. I don’t have to tell you, of all people, that one.”

Dean rolled to his side, patting the bed at her. She huffed and rolled her eyes but dropped onto the blanket and crawled into him all the same, burrowing face first into his broad chest.

“You think we could ever be happy?”

“In general, or you mean, like as an ‘us’?” Dean spoke into her hair, the thick strands soft against his lips.

“At all.”

“I don’t know. But I hate to see you stop fighting.”

“Yeah, sometimes it feels like the fight was taken from me. Like I was robbed. I don’t know how to be me and this other thing all together.”

“For what it’s worth? I’m sorry for what happened when she, when I–.”

“This isn’t about her, Dean. This is about figuring out whatever I am now.”

“You can still be you, Cease, trust me. You’ve always been remarkable, now you know where some of that comes from.”

CC thudded his chest with her head, laughing. “Man, you are laying it on thick tonight. Itching that bad, huh?” She leaned back to see his appraising smirk and eyebrow waggle. The light shifted, and he was that very breakable man again. Chloe knew she could hurt him in an instant and it terrified her. If it wasn’t for the Mark on his arm, he might have already been a casualty of her unhindered wrath. She didn’t want to let go, but holding on felt like chaining him to her, where all the consequences were unknown.

“Hey, if it’s just this tonight and this is all you need. I’ll be good.”

“But?”

“But I wouldn’t say no to less clothing.”

The next morning

Dean woke up with a sour taste in his mouth, CC’s legs thrown over his. Slowly he eased out from behind her with a quick peck on the tip of her shoulder. If she was awake, she didn’t let on; allowing him to leave guilt-free. He dragged his pants and boxers back on, not bothering with his belt. He fisted his shirts in one hand and his boots in the other, closing her door with a gentle click. He showered and found Sam, and his judging face cocked in Dean’s general direction, at the breakfast table.

“Did you at least convince her to ride along on the next case?”

“Pffft, no. Have you met her? I couldn’t convince her to do anything, ever.”

“And yet, here we are.”

“Okay, well maybe, I nudged her a certain direction.” Dean gave a considering pout before turning back to pour himself some coffee.

Sam pursed his lips. “If that’s what you’re calling it; I don’t wanna know.”

“Oh, you wanna, but I aint telling.”

“You done? Cuz I might have a line on something.”

Dean inhaled. “Whatcha got?”

Sam launched into the grizzly details of mutilated bodies while Dean tried to listen. Once his post-coital strut wore off, he felt a little sheepish about the whole thing. It was the first night they had spent together since he’d been cured. Nothing about it left him feeling any better about CC or whatever they had between them.

**Hell**

You had been coughing for what felt like a year. The chemicals in the air choked your lungs and burned your eyes; everywhere you looked was a sooty amber haze. Once you thought you were going to retch from its potency; it thickened filling your nose and throat until all you could do was swallow the poison down. Time quickly no longer held any meaning for something like you. You who had escaped Hell and lived among hunters, abandoned your post and killed your own kind. Despite having served the King while Earth-side; the rules remained the same. Deserters and mutineers earned their punishments.

You had to pay for what you’d done. The longer you clung to your memories of freedom, the deeper the ache of separation seeped.

**December 2, 2014**

**The Bunker**

Chloe had been sidestepping this long enough. Watching Dean going crossed eyed over research was not something that could keep her wandering thoughts at bay. She sauntered around the library table and let her hands roam his tense shoulders. He didn’t respond more than a slight grunt. He felt foreign in her hands, breadth and depth at odds with what her body knew to be true of his abilities. Slowly she saw him fall inch by inch into the sedation of her ministration. With the heat of her mouth on his ear, CC beckoned Dean into his room, hands pulling, while lips teased along his jaw. He hadn’t expected such a reception. When he finally had caught up, she threw him for another loop.

“Listen, there are some things we need to get straight, before we continue what we’re doing here.”

Dean leaned back, holding CC’s thick waist in his strong hands as he squinted at her sudden change of mood. “Okay, if this is gonna be a side of the bed thing, I’m flexible as along as I can get to my gun.” Dean nodded as CC bit both of her lips in mild amusement. “Not that kind of straightening, got it.”

As her warm hands rested on his chest she fiddled with the buttons on his thermal, trying to decide where to start. “Okay, well, how about we decide when it started and what we want from there?”

“Uh, okay, but I am not much for the semantics and anniversaries. We’ve had some fun and kicked some ass. Don’t really need more than that. Do you?”

“What’s important to me is you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.” While still pressing Dean against the door, CC reached up and tied her hair in a black silky ball at the top of her head. “So, when did you first realize I was possessed?”

Dean took her hands in his, dropping them to her side and rocking her upright, so he could stand up. Hunters’ instincts keeping him on guard, even if his knuckles were locked in hers. “I knew for certain when I cleaned your room and it was caked in sulfur, after the dead vessels at Magnus’s. Right after I got the First Blade.”

CC scooted back, breaking contact to pace in a subtle arc and fiddle with her knife handle. “Okay, I don’t remember that, at all. I’m pretty sure that I was already out of control by then.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “I mean, there was that case that you lost time. North Carolina?”

“Oh, yeah, thought I lost my truck. You were a lifesaver. Okay, that’s longer.” Dean had squared his shoulders, he watched her now with a keyed-up disbelief, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for CC to unleash it all.

“How far back was it really?” Dean closed his eyes, unable to face her answer, knowing that hearing it would be painful enough.

“I’m not sure, she didn’t make a fuss or pack me away at first. I think, Santa Fe? Maybe earlier,” CC admitted, cupping the back of her neck and staring at her feet. Some hunter she was, letting a fucking demon joyride through her life for months. Though they had grown together, in hindsight it was still embarrassing, especially the parts she couldn’t tell him. Of when she watched them together and envied their spark, or the parts she would never tell anyone, when the demon inside Dean scared even the one that was inside of her.

“How much of this–” Dean broke off, with a disgruntled sigh. “How much of it was her?”

CC reached up to touch him now, his voice had cracked, and his jaw struggled against the bitterness. How could someone seem so far away while she could feel his body heat against her skin? He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean into the softness of her palm, like before. She watched him try and keep himself together and the space inside her ribs doubled, the walls falling away to more emptiness. “Enough.”

He turned away to clear his tears then, pinching his lips to try and center himself. The Mark’s rage began to build in his temples, failing against all the unwanted emotion and the truth he had to face. CC’s hand fell to her chest, she cradled it over her tender heart, trying, in vain, to stop the damage from spreading. Dean didn’t know how he felt, there was guilt, his old poor-weather friend, but this burden of loss was unexpected, and a new regret too damning to acknowledge. He wanted to pull Chloe to him, to let her dumb the ache.

The two of them together, felt wrong now, incomplete and lopsided. Dean wasn’t sure if she, the demon that had known him, was their missing piece or if they each had simply lost parts of themselves along the way.

A gentle knock on the door broke the moment, CC’s face tightening and Dean’s falling into a familiar lazy grin.

“Guys? It’s Jody.” Sam held his phone to his chest, tone even, but he missed nothing as they buried their feelings and put their game faces back on.

*^*


	21. Two Halves, Three Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: CC learns to navigate more of the Winchesters’ associates. Meanwhile, Dean crosses the line to end Cain’s reign of terror. He finds her vulnerable, will she let him sate himself in every way imaginable? Can he run from what he is becoming? Is she enough to keep the evil at bay? Crowley finds our Reader and offers a path to redemption, if she can trust what he’s selling.
> 
> Warnings: Post murder haze, torture, period sex, blood, blood play, stabbing, dub!con smut, subtle mention of past sexual assault, disassociation, humiliation, and loss of sense of self.

**December 11, 2014**

**The Bunker**

It was nearly dawn when Chloe felt the air tighten against the Impala’s entry into the garage. Something was wrong; Sam was driving. Dean sat in the passenger seat and in the back, Castiel beside a blonde who had cried out a week’s worth of mascara and eyeliner. Dean was bleeding, but that wasn’t what was wrong. He stared ahead, lost and empty, covered in others’ blood. It was human, every last drop, CC could tell just by the smell. An ability she would have appreciated if it didn’t lead to the implications on Dean’s clothing.

Other than the upset teenager, no one else seemed to have been touched by the fray. Sam rapped on the hood, giving CC his best ‘I can’t explain this away’ eyes. He was worried mute. CC finally moved toward the car, both Sam and she eventually earning swats as Dean came to, silently protesting their help.

“How many?” CC whispered against his retreating form.

“Look, they were loan sharks and they were going to use Claire-,” Sam started.

“How many people did he kill?”

“Four.” Castiel cut in, glimpsing back to the girl in the backseat.

CC’s stomach pitched, a phantom whiff of manure and dust drifted past her nose and into her thoughts. She didn’t allow herself to focus on the reality of Dean’s crimes, instead she moved the conversation along. “What are you going to do with the kid?”

“She won’t stay here. I was going to take her to a motel in town. Chloe, I’m sorry, CC, would you be willing to accompany me?”

Sam huffed. “Is that really a good idea, Cas?”

“I just thought that, maybe an older female might be able to get through to her.” Cas looked wrecked, his vessel wearing his worry like a neon sign. He felt more human to CC than he ever had.

“I’m not babysitting.” CC stared between Sam and Cas and back again. Her annoyance and concern reciprocated in one form or another. She should be checking on Dean, not playing Big Brother Big Sister to Castiel’s ward. Dean didn’t want to see her; he had made that painfully clear. CC fiddled with her knife as the girl’s ghostly eyes challenged them from the backseat. “I’m not ready to leave the wards, not yet. But, if you guys need a minute, I can get some food in her? Keep her out of your hair for a—”

“Thank you,” Sam mouthed to CC as he and Cas nearly ran out of the garage and the blast radius all she could do was reply with a single finger. CC walked around the hood of the Impala, hands tucked in her back pockets as she watched the girl glare and roll her eyes.

“What do you want?”

“I want to go back to bed, but since that’s not happening. Coffee?” CC gave Claire five seconds before walking away, nodding over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. Claire followed CC dejectedly, hunger trumped petulance apparently, if barely.

“So, who are you anyway?”

“You can call me CC.” She almost smiled over her shoulder, dropping down into the sunken kitchen.

“Which one of them is your–?”

“My what?” CC pushed the automatic drip setting from delayed brew to ON and started rifling through the pantry for English muffins once Claire made up her mind to join her.

“Dean, huh? Figures. Well, your man’s a murderer, if you didn’t know.”

CC didn’t really look up at the girl while she started preparing their hasty meal, but it was evident that her bitterness was far from fading. CC slammed the toaster lever in place and leered down at Claire, who was sitting on the kitchen table with her feet on the seat of a chair. “Alright, Miss Teen Bitch. First off, you are in their home, so I’d watch who you call what. Secondly, yeah, I did know. Pretty much every hunter has the bad kind of blood on their hands, that includes me.”

The creak of the muffins’ release broke the silence. There was more eye rolling and tongue tisking, but eventually Claire began to listen for the answer to her more pointed questions.

“What are you even doing with him?”

CC shrugged, “I could ask the same about you and the angel.”

“Gross.” Claire recoiled. “Besides, they came after me! I just swiped his wallet for some spare cash. They should have just let me go! If they had—- Fuck! You know what? Screw you lady. You’re on their side. You’re not gonna listen to me.”

“Hey, cool it, alright?” Claire threw her fists down at her sides and folded them over her stomach. CC could see she needed to keep prodding because Claire was so close to the next hurdle. “Let’s get things straight. This isn’t a black white, us vs. you scenario. They thought you were in danger and did what they thought was best for you; to keep you safe. Sucks not being able to make the call on your own life, don’t it?” CC waited for Claire to acknowledge the helplessness they shared.

“Yeah, well, I might be Dean’s whatever. But I know all too well about Winchester intentions. For the record, me and Castiel? Not friends.”

“He’s wearing my dad’s face. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

CC dropped onto the bench below Claire, handing her a plate. “Just a little weirder than living in an underground bunker with the guys that sent your closest friend to Hell?”

Claire nibbled on the toasted olive branch, tearing it to pieces before finally relaxing. She was scared and desperate, it came off in every gesture of her defensive attitude. CC started to wonder just what was going to happen with the kid now that she had been brought in.

“I hate them, all of them. I hate them for what they did.”

CC’s mouth twisted in sad empathy at the girl, knowing that the grief she wasn’t processing was much more palatable as rage. It was like looking into a fun house mirror of her past: overdone make up and culturally rebellious hair style. All just more things to help in the lie to herself about how empty she felt.

“What?! I do.”

“I know.” CC rolled back up to her feet, nodding toward the fridge. “Let’s see what else there is to eat. There’s one thing that’ll piss Dean off more than messing with his car and that’s eating the last of his pie.”

“Okay?” Claire huffed out an unamused agreement, a reluctant warmth shone from her eyes.

**February 2015**

Dean had gone cold turkey. He stopped drinking, stopping lurking outside CC’s room at night, and started eating egg white omelets, apparently. Fat lot of good it did. The Oz Case with Charlie gave him whiplash, seeing his friend spilt into parts as if she was just the sum of her emotions rubbed him the wrong way. Breaking her arm was something he was never going to be able to forgive himself for; his knuckles still scabbed over from decimating her porcelain face. Her dogged determination and forgiveness still got him in the throat. Ever present, CC had stood, unflinching as the boys and Charlie had their goodbyes.

Now as Sam casually mentioned Tina from the Hansel and Gretel run in, something akin to jealousy flashed in her steely eyes. Something he had no desire to press her on nor any hope that it could lead to getting her back. She had helped out with Claire, had researched the hell out of the Bunker’s stacks alongside them through it all, and she had all but admitted the demon was the one moaning his name, the one that used her body to make his every nerve sing. If that wasn’t enough to drive him to drink again, nothing was.

**February 16, 2015**

**A festering cavern, Hell**

Blinding daylight burst from an unseen door to your left. Once your eyes adjusted a figure appeared, breaking through the shafts of light, like a key in a lock. His footfalls were leisurely, the clipping beat of his obscenely expensive shoes barely gaining ground. Crowley walked into your isolated prison like a birder on a Sunday stroll.

“Oh good, you’re conscious.” His big eyes teetered on compassion as his words fell in a nice noncommittal little heap. You wanted to reply; the empty air loomed as your mouth tried to form words. You couldn’t remember how long it had been since you had used your voice. Your tongue thick and coarse in your throat as it strove to remember language. Crowley squinted, but waited as you grew frustrated with yourself. You sighed, nodding in exasperation before he could mock you for it. You weren’t certain he was real, but the thought of a visitor, even one seeking twisted entertainment, was better than another decade alone. Eventually you decided that you couldn’t have made him up; you had better imagination than that.

“I wasn’t aware we still used places like these. These rubbish heaps were from the initial days of Hell. The time when the fallen Angels fought for control and some unseen judicial system weighed the disloyal and usurpers’ crimes. You got off lightly, by the old standards. It takes a lot of energy to maintain this kind of torment; it simply isn’t worth the output for a single demon here or there. Then again, we all must answer for our crimes; no matter how seemingly noble the reasoning. Rebels against an outdated hierarchy—”

He continued to drone on, though your exhausted mind could hardly keep up and when it did; you found yourself unaffected by his rallying attempts. You were too downtrodden to feel any comradery with the man who held the keys to your cage. To all the cages. Hate was a delicious main course that followed the apathetic appetizer. You began to wade out to the swells of emotion. Things that hadn’t reached you in years carving through you until you were ready to swim in the rage as he spoke, eyes beetle black and bulging as he spat his points.

Finally, you fissured as the sound erupted from your mouth, a frustrated wail that shut the King up well and good.

“What do you want?!” you demanded between staccato breaths. You glared down at him, his human form was nearly a head shorter than you, but the inches of debris locking your ankles in place nearly evened the field of vision. You hoped the words you used made sense; because he was taking his time answering.

“I need someone to do a little digging on a certain individual. Someone who owes me and who won’t go gossiping to the demon next door.” Crowley tongue worked his cheek. “In short, I am offering you a one-way ticket back, what do you say?”

“Who?” The confusion began to clear as the delirious hum of hope rang in your ears.

“Can’t tell you here. Now–” Crowley looked over his shoulder and raised his fist in the air. “Let’s get you somewhere a little more accommodating, shall we?”

Before you could even nod, he snapped his fingers, freeing you from the slop and stench.

**Tale End of Executioner’s Song**

**Dean has killed Cain**

Dean comes up from the dark with rasping breaths. His tendons are locked into place and his wrist is screaming from strain, a frequency he has yet to process. He doesn’t remember telling his feet to move, but his legs have carried him this far: away from the evidence and back down to those waiting on him. All pretense shrivels as he hears Sammy’s voice close by, persistent but muddled. Then Crowley’s, asking for his arm, no, the blade. Right, it isn’t a part of him after all. He should really let go, he isn’t sure what part of him is making these decisions, but grateful it doesn’t seem to be as hard as it feels.

Dean turns the weapon handle out and passes it to Cas. His eyes have focused enough to see the disbelief on the demon’s face at the gesture. Dean isn’t here to suffer fools; however helpful they had become. He reveals his deceits, unblinking as Crowley disappears. Sam catches him then, before his legs finally catch up to the path that got them there and Dean wonders what God sees in man.

The fog of battle clung to his mind, the Mark dulled, but never silenced. His blood flowed hot and vibrant, pumping through his veins in and out of his heart, that very human organ thumping in his gnawing chest. Dean moved as if he was tailing himself, looking down on his movements from some unimaginable higher ground until he slid into the Impala and drove away. Everything was reflex, instinct, autopilot. The moment the driver’s side door creaked open, he smelled it. Blood, faint and intoxicating. That hot beat inside of him pounded deeper.

He threw his duffel to the foot of his bed and shrugged out of his jacket. The Mark peered beneath the rolled cuff of his flannel, a garish pink against the dark fabric. Somehow, Dean found himself in the kitchen and despite the caffeine and the cheerleading from Sam, he felt hollowed out. Dean’s vision tunneled as he dodged out of further conversation to march down the hall. Finally, he could seek what had been calling to him.

CC froze over the washing machine as he loomed in the doorway. Her eyes closed as she felt him scent her, she didn’t turn an inch in his direction. Her bare legs, plump and smooth, beneath her tiny pajama shorts were just enough exposed skin to do some real damage. She fell back, heavy on to her heels. “How was it?”

“Final,” Dean said after stopping to consider an appropriate description for an assassination.

Chloe finally saw him, torn between shadow and shame. “I was scared you’d—"

“Yeah, well. I did.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hulking as he considered her concern.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” CC swallowed more air, the fear and electricity making her lightheaded. She moved to rest her hand on her knife handle, but it slid over the missing weapon. Her oversized sweatshirt sleeve covering her hand as it dangled in unfulfilled habit.

“How you doin’ Cease?”

“What?”

“How are you?” Dean said each word with a step forward, head bowing as he watched her straighten to face him.

“Uh, pretty crabby, but okay, I guess.”

Dean hummed, eyes squinting as she nervously looked to the door and back to space between their feet. “Anything I can help you out with?”

She blushed, a warmth twisting around her eyes and an awkward smile pulled at her cheeks as she centered her ponytail, giving her itching hands something to hold on to. “Dean?”

“Chloe?” Dean’s eyes darkened, the dangerous smirk pulling far enough back to let the overhead lights glint on his impossible teeth. He was gaunt and sallow; yet power continued to radiate from all over him.

“How are you looking at me like that,” she whispered in disbelief, pulling her top lower over her wide hips. “I am disgusting right now.”

“Yeah, well, compared to my butchered mug; you’re as tantalizing as ever, Cease. Besides, I could use a distraction or two, however dirty they might be.” Dean’s voice dropped another octave, an invisible fist clenched inside her. She groaned, letting her head fall in indecision. Dean closed the distance between them, big hands taking her shoulders firmly as he leaned down, earning a grin as she found his eyes suddenly playful beneath lush lashes.

“Seriously, I’m gross.”

“Not to me you’re not,” Dean purred, wide thumb stroking her strong cheek bone. “Let me make you less crabby.” CC’s head rolled to the side; her nose nuzzled into his comforting stubble.

At long last, she caved, her spiced skin slipping beneath his cracked lips as they danced over her collar bone. Dean’s entire body hummed with a need nearly as wide as the void inside him. They collided, grabbing and shoving until Dean started to wonder who was truly strongest. Then CC nipped below his ear and he tossed her on top of the washing machine she had set to HOT. She pinched her knees together, twisting side saddle on the hissing appliance, lips parting as Dean’s tongue took its time riling her up from the inside out.

Dean’s hands widened, tips and palms digging into her fleshy thighs, begging access until he demanded it. She groaned into his mouth before pulling back, her uncertainty crumbled beneath his singular focus. She tasted the iron from his split lip, a bit of coffee and something unimaginable. Even bad decisions need to be made to prove their consequence. Chloe grabbed Dean’s forearms and pushed him back, his gaze slow to move up from his target.

“Shower room?” she asked hopping back down on her bare feet.

Dean barely shook his head, nose buried in her hair. Her arms threaded around his waist as his thumb cocked up her face, his fingers threading into the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

“My room? It’s farthest from Sam’s?” Dean answered with clashing teeth and a fistful of Chloe’s ass.

There was a threatening rhythm to their efforts, hefty pauses ending only after the other started to teeter; to break. They had gotten to CC’s room, clothes shoved and forgotten along the way to the bed. Dean grasped the nape of her neck, his arm locked as he stared through her, eyes unfocused and mouth open against a horror she couldn’t see. She tried to pull him closer, to sit back and take him with her, but he was frozen. She slid her palm under his elbow and pushed up, her other arm braced across his chest to keep him back, in case his reaction was less than friendly.

His jaw worked over all the words that wouldn’t form, eyes dropping closed as he came back from the brink, grip softening as his forehead fell to her shoulder. CC couldn’t stop from shaking as the moment passed, Dean’s mouth finding her pulse point more than conversational again. All that hovered over them: fear, power, destiny and damnation, fueled them until they were desperate and starving, knowing that the other was just as empty. Just as wanton. Dean’s hands pulled her thighs apart and his teeth ran the edge of the faded cotton. The iron sang through his nose as it mixed with her arousal; a signature cocktail he couldn’t refuse.

CC swallowed as his fingers dragged down the last barrier between his mouth and her coated folds. No sound could reach her as she battled the disgust and desire, Dean’s tongue threaded through her lips, nipping and sucking them swollen. He moved in to circle her clit; the heat of her shame began to burn away as yearning eclipsed all custom and ceremony. CC’s head fell back, and when she closed her eyes knots of wood looked back.

Suddenly she was suspended from her every nerve, tucked away from feeling Dean shove three fingers inside her mess. In a bubble of warmth and muffled sound, CC drifted. It was calm and quiet there, a place without resistance or time. She began to wonder if this is what Death felt like, if the veil could manifest itself to tease her. To coax her immortality from her by sheer tranquility. There was something pulling at the back of her thoughts, something she was forgetting, something that demanded her opposition even, but CC couldn’t be bothered to think on that. Not quite yet.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s lost her, he just keeps finger fucking her until the thinning blood is snaking down his arm. His lips pull at her, thirst crazed and blind. The beat inside his head overtakes her pulse, heavy and languid, building. Her breath catches and he feels the gentle trickle, a silent compliment for his efforts. Her body pulls while he pushes, deeper, solid, unmoving as the shuttering of her walls loosen outward in waves.

Dean pulls his hand back and admires it in the light, rust rimmed nails and ruddied knuckles as the skin cools beneath the liquid as it dries and cracks. It’s not enough. His eyes search the desk and dresser, knowing it must be here, somewhere. He isn’t thinking, he is only moving. The battered leather sheath lays across her boots, handle smooth and solid as he grips it in his right hand. It’s smaller than he thought, but the spellworked blade dazzles as Dean pulls it from its case.

She hasn’t moved safe for her chest rising and eyes scrunched against the ceiling. Dean should know that isn’t a good sign, but either he doesn’t register it, or he doesn’t care. He moves to her side, where he can feel her curves against him, her lungs expand as he lets his weight fall against her. Her head lulls to the side and a soft whimper passes her lips as he slides home, blood thick and gritty along every inch of him. Dean almost cums at the sight of the gore he pulls out of CC’s channel. He pushes back in, shoving her knees obscenely against the comforter, letting every ripple of her thighs and ass urge him on.

CC feels the first slice between her breasts. Like a tuft of hair caught in a necklace she is pulled from her weightlessness and placed back in reality. The sweat stings her skin as it opens, her granddad’s knife dangles above her as Dean catches her eye. He thrusts into her with clenched teeth, eyes dark and muscles constricting as he shifts lower. Her legs lock around his waist as he stands, still buried inside her. She tries to sit, but his free hand pushes her back down, rough palm burning against the mangled flesh.

He grunts and gasps, and CC finally sees it, the terror in his eyes. He’s frozen once more. The knife is shaking in his hand, a not so invisible force extending over his forearm. CC needs to do something; Dean’s panicking as his body moves without him. She rolls her hips and threads her fingers around his wrist. Dean’s eyes go wide as she sinks the metal beneath her ribs. She shushes him, nodding and rocking into his body. Dean looks away and moves again, entering her doubly as the Mark takes her offering to free him. She tries to keep breathing, to stay conscious and keep watch on Dean.

Her hand slips up from his wrist and over the cursed brand in his white skin. She focuses on it, stomping on the tendrils of control with her mind; it remains immobile and unnerving. She feels the darkness pulling at her, trying to put her under, to stow her away. Dean’s face falls to her neck, he pulls the knife from her side, leaving jarring pain shooting through her as the wound registers. Dean cries out, clutching her head to his, arms tight and knife falling.

CC thrashes against him, breaking through with a fist through his near headlock; they roll back, clinging to each other like a life raft. His scruff prickles her throat and CC coughs, breaking the stalemate. They pull apart, limbs and groins untangling in guilt riddled silence. Dean clears his throat and sits up, hand hovering over her wounds. He’s mesmerized and apologetic, biting back any sorry when CC inhales against the pain. She waves him off and pops up onto her elbows. Her eyes take in the damage and she frowns in consideration before closing her eyes.

“Cease?” Dean whines a worry as her skin starts to glow.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna be fine, just, uh, just gimme a sec.” CC wills the walls of her organs to fuse, her muscles knit together, and the skin zips closed and clean before Dean’s eyes. She pants from effort and falls back to the bed, a gentle smile twisting on her face before she opens her eyes. Dean’s are like saucers, his slack jawed expression made worse by the patches of blood and slick crusted in his scruff. All CC can think is how his mix of scary and stoned is causing her heart to catch in her throat.

“Hey?” CC whispers, slipping her hand over his, despite the nausea that was creeping back up. “You good?”

Dean lets her question sit unanswered, floating in the space between his guilty hands and her enabling eyes. The world seemed to tilt before he falls into the damp darkness of unconsciousness.

^*^*^*^

Dean woke to the sound of his own screams, his fist jutting up into some unseen enemy. He swung against her as CC tried to pull him back, her hand cool on his left bicep. He smelled soap and felt damp pillows; he couldn’t remember showering. Finally, the room righted itself and he could piece together what little furniture she had accumulated since they’d been brought back to the Bunker. Since the demon inside her had helped Sam cure him. He spotted her empty boots and the images of her knife in his grip flashed in his mind’s eye; his stomach twisted against the memories he forced himself to swallow.

CC let him work through it, she was sore and exhausted and couldn’t find the words that would bring him back from the brick wall he kept running himself into. His recoil from her every touch set up her haunches as it was, maybe she should have dragged him to his own bed after all. Having him here felt like they were hiding, but the only person she felt any guilt for was no longer in this phase of existence.

He whispered a desperate ‘fuck’ into the early morning quiet. Finding his undershirt; he ducked into the neck before turning to face CC. Whatever he was hoping to find in her face, it wasn’t there. Her tired eyes were set deep atop her full cheeks, her uncertainty and caution bordering on annoyance.

“What?” Her voice warbled.

“Forget it.” Dean closed his eyes as her hand snaked over the sheets to cage his in. “I’m sorry I woke you up, I’ma head back to my room, let you get some rest.”

“Dean? You don’t have to—” She didn’t even try to sell it.

“I know, but, I just keep going through the thing with Cain and, you need to recuperate now, so.” Dean shrugged, left a peck on her forehead and threw on the rest of his clothes before either said another word. Once he was free to the safety of the empty hallway Dean shivered, his bare feet and wet head oddly comforting in the confines of his body and bones.

CC watched him leave, quick and painlessly. There was so much lacking between them that it didn’t even register as a rejection; they were simply saying what they thought the other wanted to hear. They were quite the lop-sided pair: the cursed hunter and Heaven’s bastard’s mistake. Both broken, in very different directions.


	22. The Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Our reader’s back and there’s gonna be trouble! Charlie brings back the Book of the Damned and CC asks Castiel for something he doesn’t want to give.
> 
> Warnings: This is super long, possession, show level violence, rough sex, face fucking, oral sex (male and female), hair pulling, dirty talk, dub!con smut.

**March 30, 2015**

****

****

**Munich, Germany**

The city was old, streets wrapping around buildings at harsh angles and in varying stone. But that was what you needed, age, wisdom, answers. At your sendoff, Crowley had given you a name, occupation, and a proverbial pat on the head. You didn’t know why you complied so easily; until you heard the first peal of laughter from a stranger on the sidewalk. Humanity. To be surrounded by life was worth the mission. Language and social niceties came back quickly, adjusting from vessel to vessel as you navigated the foreign byways.

It was easy to forget your time with Dean here; to imagine yourself something newly minted in this different world. The power you found during your initial escape in that lonesome field painted with bull’s blood, was nothing compared to the possibility of redemption. It taunted and teased you with that naïve hope only Crowley’s goading could coax from your battered mind. He hadn’t mentioned your previous time running his errands, nor the Winchesters, but he didn’t have to. He had your number, and once you started stacking the clues together; you had his.

The shop was warded to the nines, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t watch from the café across the street. You handed the server a fifty Euro banknote and asked to be left alone, freeing your table for the lunch hour and beyond. Hell, the teacher of eternal patience had left you with nothing to do but absorb and endure. So, you did what you knew; you waited. Eventually, the shopkeepers eased from the side door, their business hours long faded into the setting sun.

They each cast a hasty glamour once they spotted you. Too late; you had their scent now. Carefully you rounded the building the opposite way they had headed, the alleys were dark and narrow so much more inconvenient for the humans you tailed. Their hurried footfalls remained unmasked, up and over the next embankment. You didn’t flinch as they separated, trying to confuse you further. They only managed to spread their magic too thin and soon you had gained on the rasping breaths of the one that had decided to go north.

“I’m not after you, you know. I’m looking for someone else,” you said in blunt German.

“I know who you work for,” the rough voice answered in accented English.

“Then you know it is easier to give me the information than wait for the consequences.”

His middle-aged face appeared as he dropped his last barrier from your shining black eyes. He pushed off the brick wall and squared his stance, hands dangling and fingers working in distracting movements. You pulled the handgun from your waistband and met his bluff. No one expects a cowboy duel in the Fatherland, but nothing about your afterlife made sense.

“You want to draw a little more attention to yourself there? Bullets don’t scare me, demon,” he spat out the last word as if he was some holy man, some saint worthy of a judgement.

“Witch killing bullets might slow you down a tick though, yeah? Witch.” You said it how it felt best on your tongue. You spoke over your shoulder to the one who had rounded back, failing to trap you, “thanks for joining us. All I need is for one of you to talk and then we can all go home. Easy peasy.”

“What does it want?” The one still hidden from sight demanded from the one staring down the barrel of your gun.

“Information,” you answered evenly.

“On who?”

The man shook his head at his partner; the name in your head reaped more fear in the witch than Crowley. The silent conversation dragged between them and you decided incentive was necessary at this point. If Crowley’s reputation wasn’t enough, enforcement needed to make up for it. You pulled the hammer back and aimed.

“Alright, alright, what do you need to know?”

“Give me everything you have on Rowena MacLeod.”

*^*^*^*^

**April 1, 2015**

****

****

**Inside Man**

If Dean was avoiding CC, then he was. If CC was avoiding him, he had no idea. It was almost too easy to be with her in the quiet library or even the cavernous garage, now. Maybe it was the non-human thing, but Dean didn’t really notice her anymore. A chameleon in any room, there, only when she wanted to make her presence known, otherwise she had become as peripheral as furniture. So, it was with the same regard as to a bookcase that Dean called Rudy, begging to be his back up on a case. Sam had his mime movie thing and Dean had his cabin fever. Bupkis it was.

He slipped into the driver’s seat and headed to nowhere in particular, the purples and greens of twilight kept at bay with Baby’s headlights. Dean needed something normal, something expected, something as easy as his hands on the wheel and his cassettes in the deck. This was where he belonged, where he was himself and how he could make sense of things. Now with what the Mark and the world had done to him, he needed it more than ever. Without Sam’s constant vigilance and CC’s over accommodating methods; Dean needed to feel like Dean again, even if it was just for the forty-mile drive to a douche filled sports’ bar.

He switched to the radio about twenty minutes down the road, letting a familiar snare walk and bass line fill the car. He started singing along, drumming his fingers on the downbeats. Dean let himself sink into the music, the carefree joy of belting out crescendo after crescendo. His voice cracked on a lyric and he stopped to swallow as it all hit him. He missed her. He fucking missed the demon. He finished the song, words hitting him harder on the other side. He ignored the tightness in his chest and the shake to his hands. Thinking it made it real and the reality of longing for something, someone like that made his stomach pitch. But it wasn’t disgust, it was grief.

Dean yanked his thoughts out of the depths and brought them back to surface survival as he pulled into the parking lot. The faux neon signs reflected on the Impala’s freshly waxed hood. The meager groups were congregated around the pool tables and Dean decided to try his luck.

A few beers and a pool hustle later; Dean realized he should have stayed in for the night. Rowena had set a pack of rabid frat boys on him and he had to reign in every ounce of his control to stop from gutting them all.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean had the tiny woman pinned to the bar after her spell failed to even give him a nosebleed.

“Saving my son!”

Dean’s confusion was dwarfed only by his surprise. “Your son?”

“Crowley,” she challenged him, adding another shock to the moment.

“Crowley Crowley?!”

“My son is a king! A god, or he would be if you didn’t—You snap your fingers and he comes running like a wee lapdog.”

Dean started to back away, missing whatever blame he held in this scenario. “Lady I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a good influence on him. That’s why you need to die!”

“Well, sorry your little light show didn’t work,” Dean held her fast, he wasn’t going to underestimate her now.

“Oh, I’ll try again,” she whispered the promise that sent a chill down his spine.

“What, you think I’m just gonna let you walk outta here?” Dean matched her menacing smirk.

“I think, you’re a hero. You could have killed those men, but you didn’t. Because they’re innocent.” She winks at him then, taunting him even with the knife to her very pale throat. “Cuz, you’re the good guy and you want them to live. But the spell I cast will DEVOUR them from the inside out, just like it did that girl.” She knew exactly how to use her powers and wiles against him. “I’m the only that can save them. What’s it going to be, HERO?”

Dean recoiled, releasing Rowena as he stepped back to allow her the chance to reverse the damage she had caused. “Fix ‘em up and go.”

“So civil, aren’t you?”

“Lady, I think I’m being the, bigger person here? You did just try and kill me.”

“Well, bigger isn’t always stronger, is it? Brains are a muscle you might want to, strengthen?”

Dean rolled his eyes behind her back. Lithely, Rowena whispered into each of the dude bro’s ears, pulling hexbags from their pockets.

Another bar, another drink with another MacLeod

“Who’s the liar now?” Crowley looked at Dean a little too knowingly. Dean scoffed and took a drink. “She says I’ve gone soft.”

Dean chuckled, because damn if the red head isn’t right, “you have. What? Yeah, maybe it’s all the human blood that Sammy pumped into you, you know? Maybe it’s, uh, I don’t know. I don’t know. But the old Crowley, he would have come in here with hell hounds and demons and he would have blown the roof off the joint. Now? You didn’t want to fight. You wanted to talk. And maybe I’ve changed too. Here I am playing Dr. Phil to the King of Hell. Never saw that coming.”

“Maybe we’re getting old,” Crowley waxed mortally.

“Never saw that coming either,” Dean agreed.

Dean let go with Crowley, explaining the backbone of who he is and how he had made it this far. Family. Then he shoved the piss poor example of a mother Crowley was clinging to, back into the demon’s face. “Does that sound like your mother?”

Crowley knew better, but he was feeling generous. Dean had become his Achilles’ heel after all. “You know I may have seen it coming. Might have had someone digging up all her years of indiscretions since I’d last seen her.”

“Well, good, can’t be too careful,” Dean takes the last pull from his glass, smacking his lips together.

“She’s kind of a wildcard, but I think she’ll get the job done. Who knows, maybe it’s just me getting soft. But I do love an underdog,” Crowley’s eye sparkled back at Dean as the suspicion creeped through the man’s features.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dunno,” Crowley stood. “Just, uh, let me know if you want her number? Might be worth the dime.” With little segue, he vanished. Dean groaned and slid Crowley’s drink over, holding back the fruit and ice before taking the leftovers as payment for not offing the guy’s mom.

**April 16, 2015**

****

****

**Book of the Damned**

**The Bunker after the Cabin**

“Whoa,” CC muttered just as she felt Castiel arrive. She looked across the War Room table to Sam who just walked in from whatever he had stashed in his room. “We’ve got company.”

“Hello, Sam, CC.” Castiel joined them, filling in the details of their plan to get information out of Metatron on the Mark behind Dean’s back. Castiel explained in guilt-laden detail how his original grace had been restored. CC felt an ease in the Angel’s eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. Sam did his best to placate Cas, while CC started guessing how a being like Metatron on the loose was going to come back to bite them all in the ass. A stone started to worry in her gut over the words of a never forgotten dream.

“You did the right thing. That book needed to be destroyed,” Castiel’s reassurance brought CC back to the present. “We will find another way, Sam.”

The creaking of the entry door turned everyone’s head skyward.

“We’re back bitches!” Charlie’s spunky return continued to brighten the mood as the evening moved forward with genuine ease in the air. CC never saw Dean smile as much as he did when the red head was around. Something about her tenacity and unabashed nerdiness brought out the teddy bear in him, which CC liked to see, even from a distance. The hacker had become part of the family in a way she never had, despite living with them for this long. Thoughts of a lonely childhood and her looming solitary eternity caused CC to call an early night, leaving only a weary Sam to notice her exit.

**April 18, 2015**

****

****

**Manhattan, KS**

A summons.

Though the hope had betrayingly crossed your mind, more than once, you never thought he would actually do it. Now that you stood before Dean Winchester once more, you weren’t sure if it was to kill you properly or to fuck you senseless. His glare was that gloriously intense. You welcomed either outcome, if it was at his hand.

“You rang?” You smirked in greeting, hoping the vessel was moderately appealing. The timing of the spell didn’t really give you many options, she was a petite Latina in her early forties, though her genetics hid her age well. You weren’t in the Bunker, but what appeared to be the storage area of an old basement. Mildew and old masonry evident as you gathered any detail that held potential of his intentions. Secrecy abound; you were very much alone.

“Y/N?” Dean didn’t break eye contact, his voice cracking as your eyes misted at his acknowledgement. You only nodded, the emotion of seeing him again began to break through.

“I wasn’t sure you remembered,” a whispered confession.

Dean looked down, shame falling over his usually steadfast features, “Yeah, well I had to do some digging.”

“So, you still don’t know who I am?” Realization knocking you down a peg once more. Geez, drag a girl across the world and you still can’t put the pieces together, some great love he was. And yet he was, damnit.

“I don’t think I know anyone the way I know you.” Dean chided himself, biting at his lip and tsking his tongue. He stepped closer, eyes searching yours. You unconsciously mirrored his movements, taking you to the rim of the red spray paint on the cellar floor.

“I suppose that is the best I could ask for.” Your arms longed to be around him, to feel the weight of him against you, to feel his heart beat. You didn’t know what he wanted from you, but you knew it was your last chance at honesty. You answered his call and raised him with your shared history.

A heavy breath escaped your chest and you let your eyes go black. “I first met you, centuries ago. Before I was a Demon and before you were the infamous Dean Winchester. When you were just some kid who sold his soul for his much more promising brother. Before you knew of your destinies and long before you gave Heaven and Hell the finger.”

Dean’s shoulders straightened, one hand in his pocket as his head cocked with mild amusement.

“I remember the first day Alastair strapped you to his table, the way you screamed and challenged him. I still heard it some nights back home: your voice in agony and me powerless to stop him just outside the door to his favorite torture room.” You began to pace inside the trap, working through the memories both cherished and painful.

“How long did he leave you there?” Dean asked, arms crossed over his chest now, brow furrowed.

“I was left outside your sessions until the day you took the deal,” you stepped forward as he shook his head in disbelief. “I heard him, every day, ask you and I heard you every day, even after hours of anguish, refuse. I begged him for the same opportunity, but I wasn’t special. I wasn’t you. And then I finally saw you face-to-face.”

“The First Seal.” Dean closed his eyes as it all came crashing back and into focus.

“I never blamed you,” your voice fell, hand raised trying to comfort him. He stood just beyond the barrier of his own devising. “Of course, I would have done the same, had I been given the chance. But it wasn’t until your Castiel rescued you, did I feel Alastair’s final torment.”

“Just stop, okay?!” Dean pleaded suddenly; he thumbed the Mark of Cain which seemed to be throbbing over all of the blood he had shed in Hell. The hunger that threatened his humanity once more. You flinched at his words, your stories had brought you back to that vulnerable human soul who had witnessed her schoolgirl crush and torturer ripped from her plane of existence. “You’ve only ever seen the worst of me. Why didn’t you just kill me?”

He kept his eyes down, but you saw how perplexed he felt; you were not a predictable demon and bless him for trying to understand. Your face softened, the endearment you felt catching him off guard. “I was just getting to that part, dumbass. Love. Alastair’s final torment for me was an unwavering and unrequited love, for you.”

“We had very different experiences with Alastair.” Dean’s face broke into a smile, the slight blush on his features. He was such a dork, it hurt to watch him like this.

“Yeah, well, according to Crowley, it wasn’t Alastair at all. He wasn’t ‘that sophisticated with the emotional aspects of the job’.” You shrugged.

“He has a point,” Dean relaxed, walking a bit as you continued to speak.

“Where’s Chloe?” You asked nervously, “And Sam?”

“Chloe? She’s still kicking ‘round the Bunker, but, well, too much water under the bridge.”

“That’s our girl.” You knew she would move beyond this ordeal better than most, yet somehow you still worried for her wellbeing, even after she extradited you. Fucking symbiotic relationships.

“And Sam’s fine. Ornery and trying too hard to make me listen to reason–”

“A lost cause if there ever was one.” You teased, Dean smirked, toeing the line that separated you.

“I’m done fighting the Mark, Y/N.” Dean let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not strong enough, either I go hermit-style like Cain for as long as I can, and people die. Or I just give in.”

“That seems a very narrow list of solutions to a very new problem.”

Dean’s whole torso twitched at your candor, “Well, the Book of the Damned was our last lead and that’s toast. Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

You stepped closer; tips of your pointed shoes frozen against the magical wall of the Devil’s Trap. “I’m what you would call an ‘entry-level demon’. I got out on sheer dumb luck the first time, Dean. They don’t share the great mysteries with the cesspool. Honestly, I think Crowley has been honest with you about the Mark since you became his trusty Knight in Shining Plaid.”

“Yeah, well, worth a shot.” Dean tried and fell just below gracious. He was truly desperate. It carved at you to see him so defeated.

“Is that the only thing you wanted from me?” The pain you couldn’t hide from your words, returned to you in his aching glance.

“It’s not like that.” Dean swallowed. “You know it’s—”

“It’s better left unsaid.” You nodded, trying for the stiff upper lip, sniffling against his stubbornness. “But tell me something else?”

Dean head shot up, waiting for your next question.

“If you’re done, if you’re giving in to the Mark. Why the trap? Afraid I’d get out or just afraid I’d touch you? And you’d really turn? If there’s really nothing to lose, why don’t you—”

Then he was kissing you, Dean Winchester had stepped inside your cage and welcomed your darkness as if it was his only salvation. Though you couldn’t save him; you needed to show him everything words were unable to convey. How you wished he could see how perfect in his imperfection he was, how his self-sacrifice never ceased to take your breath away, how with just the sound of his voice you could withstand a hundred years in the Pit. How much he was loved and needed and how he deserved so much more than a worthless hell-spawned wretch could offer him.

The height difference sent you spinning, he was everywhere, broad shoulders and strong hands, clutching at your now smaller body. The danger Dean accepted by stepping into the circle gave you a rush, your core tightening as he deepened the kiss. Suddenly, you were weightless, he lifted you up, your legs quickly opening to lock around his waist and before you knew it you had tugged open half the buttons of his shirt. When you pulled the tee shirt up from where your thighs had pinned it to his sides, Dean broke the kiss, with heavy breaths he rested his forehead against yours. It had been years since you had tasted him and never with this tongue, but somehow, he still knew how to kiss you.

*^*

_Dean could have stayed in that moment forever; the oasis of Y/N’s arms was something he hadn’t known he had missed until he found his way back home. Her hands were now delicate and soft, her legs shorter and waist impossibly narrow, but she still moved the same, with Y/N it felt right. His cock twitched against both his jeans and her impossibly sheer leggings. She rolled her hips against the movement, causing him to groan before leaving a fierce trail of nibbles down her jaw, her skin spiced and smooth beneath his chapped lips._

*^*

The heat growing in your belly intensified as Dean’s mouth wandered lower, his teeth tearing at the lowcut top, you pulled down the shirt and lace covered bra, freeing your aching nipples for his hungered mouth. Balancing one hand tightly on your back, Dean’s free hand kneaded your left breast before teasing the puckered flesh with the warmth of his tongue. You clamped down against the emptiness inside, overwhelmed with each affection Dean gave you.

You grinded harder against him, whimpering, letting your hands snake through his hair, your fake nails digging in as he switched to the opposite tit, pulling that nipple between his straight teeth. He watched you grow needier beneath his every touch, the desire in his eyes making you more desperate. You pulled yourself up, flush against him as you worked off his shirt. The anti-possession tattoo utterly elementary compared to the ancient curse on his arm.

You took over, your kiss demanding his submission as he backed you against the invisible concave wall. The barrier, though intangible was strong, and you used it to rest against as you slid down Dean’s body to remove the clothing restricting you from taking him fully. You wiggled the trim hips from the thin material, tossing the drenched lace to the side among the bunched pant legs. Dean had kicked off his boots, thumbing his shorts and jeans off with a swift dip. He was simply gorgeous, solid and bowlegged, but stunning all the same. Lust battled the emotional appreciation of his nudity and all too soon you were sinking to your knees. Tiny fingers raked up his calves and over his sturdy quads, heavy lashes fluttering over your cheeks as you waited for his impatience to get the best of him. Your face so close you could smell the tang of his heavy balls, eyes lingering on the drop of want leaking from his menacing tip.

Every inch of him seemed larger than before, perspective was in the eye of the beholder and for this vessel Dean’s cock was downright intimidating. The trim legs held you up, the abundant chest brushed against his leg as you silently dared him to make the next move. His hand came down hard on the crown of your head, thick fingers lacing in the dense black locks, he slid through until yanking at the nape of your neck. As he snapped your head up your mouth opened automatically from the jarring tug. In his other hand Dean fisted himself, “You don’t get to tease me, or I’ll send you back. You understand?”

You nodded, tears forming from the intensity of his grip on the base of your neck.

“Sorry?” Dean tilted his head, dramatically inviting you to speak up.

“Yes. Yes, Dean, I understand.”

He sucked air through his teeth, green eyes darkening as he released his hold on your hair, his rough thumb dragged down your jaw to circle lazily around your pouting lips. Instinctively, you licked them before he paused. “No teeth, Y/N. I know that was you and I mean it.”

“Whatever, you liked it,” you hissed before taking him into your smart mouth. Dean’s hand fell away from the base of his shaft as you worked him deeper and deeper with each test of this mouth. The lips were fuller, plush against the veiny length of him. He repeatedly tucked your hair back, keeping your face on full display as you sucked and mewled over him. As your tongue lapped from underneath, your core clenched, once again, over nothing. The gagging girth of him quickly made you lightheaded.

“You want it so bad you’re gonna choke on it, aren’t cha?” Dean crooned down at you as you looked back up at him, his fat bottom lip clenched between his perfectly white teeth. You slid back to lock eyes with him completely, delicate fingers massaged his balls as he called out into the night. “That’s it, that’s my dirty little demon slut. Hmmm,” Dean huffed and suddenly the Mark took over. His massive hands planted themselves on either side of your fragile skull and suddenly he was thrusting back into you. His dick deepened to puncturing your throat, your stomach rolled, saliva building as he growled with the fierce snap of his hips.

The pressure on your temples increased alongside his speed, delicious and terrifying. Then you began to cough, Dean finally slowed, which allowed you to swallow against the thick mucus that had gathered in your esophagus, tender and stretched wide. You dragged her nails back down his legs before letting him go with an audible pop. Then Dean did the hottest thing you had ever seen, he crouched with those damned bowlegs, lowering his pulsing cock to the generous cleavage in front of you. In a frantic whimper, you tugged your breasts apart for him, tips of your fingers teasing the dark areolas before holding the fleshy globes tight against his spit-slicked cock. Once again, his strong digits weaved into your hair as he fucked your tits. His every muscle worked to dominate you, the Mark of Cain ragged against his pale forearm, his abdomen tense behind the soft layer his other vices supplied, all overloading your senses with his power, his lust for you and just how far you would push each other.

You teased the ruddy head of his cock with the tip of your tongue, his salty juices seeping out to aid in the rough friction. Your nipples ached as your pussy sopped with emptiness.

“On you back, Y/N. I need to eat some of that before I am done with you.” Dean growled, tugging as his cock as he tried to step back from the brink. “Fucking smell you from here, you know that?” 

You didn’t reply, just slowly sat back on your bare ass, the cold floor sent shockwaves through your overheated thighs and straight to your folds. Your nipples puckered impossibly smaller. Dean spread out his large shirt behind you, before leaving a tantalizing kiss on your shoulder. Then his lips took over, he sucked and nibbled and decimated the teak colored skin. When his hot breath hovered over your nipples you thought you were going to cum on the spot. Each sensation barreled into the next, your legs were shaking by the time Dean spread your knees wide.

“Now this view, Y/N? I have got to hand it to you, hmmmm, nice choice,” Dean’s eyes glinted as his thick tongue found your swollen bud. It gave a dizzying jostle before licking broad strokes up and down your lips. Spreading you wide, Dean gathered your juices with his skilled fingers. You half laughed and half moaned when, at long last, your trembling cunt earned its fill. Dean’s fingers worked into you as he sucked gently on your bursting clit.

“Is it sweet enough,” you teased back, watching him lavish you, drunk on your sex. His scruff shown with your arousal, his whiskers adding roughness along your tender apex, further blurring the lines of pain and pleasure.

“You know what’s the most messed up part?” Dean whispered, sliding back to watch his fingers disappear inside you. “I don’t know this chick and I don’t care. I am just fucking you. Not Chloe, not anyone else. Right now, it’s only us. And I should care and I’m sure I am going to hate myself tomorrow. But that feeling of not caring?”

“I’d call it freedom. Best kind of bittersweet.” You sighed, reaching up to stroke his temple. His closed his eyes and you finally saw how bone-tired he was.

“I hate being this scared, Y/N. It’s not who I am.” His fingers never stopped; his mouth ghosted over every sensitive crease as if the act alone was penance for his confession.

“Dean?” Your voice hitched.

“Yeah?” Dean placed tiny pecks along the inside of your thigh, his voice impressively soft.

“I really need to cum. You make me feel so good, but I can’t—” you broke off into a gasp as he added a third finger inside you, his tongue pressed wide and forceful against you. You didn’t know if it was his admission or the added effort once you begged for it, but less than two minutes later and your climax overcame you. Waves of heat flooded your system as everything contracted. Then the break and you fell: unwinding with the stuttering pulses. Dean pulled you through it, his fingers’ pace slowed in calculated increments. Just as he slipped from your clutches, he made sure to nuzzle your mound before easing up to his knees.

With a tempered swat at your knee, you caught his drift, rolling completely over you rocked back to give him another angle to admire. You arched your back and shimmied your shoulders to stretch out the tension that had settled as you braced for your orgasm. You couldn’t see him, but you knew Dean was centering himself behind you, his damp fingers coating his length as it returned to its full glory. You squared yourself, knees below hips and shoulders over splayed palms, ready for whatever he would give you.

Dean nudged your knees farther apart, causing your upper half to lower onto your elbows, the cold stone floor stiff beneath your thin joints. Ass bared and ready. “I want you to tell me, who I am.”

“Deeeeeeeeannnnnnn.” You keened as he stretched you open, even his fingers couldn’t prepare you for the heavy steel of his cock.

“And?” he slowly rolled his hips, barely hitting that secret spot, as if by accident. He was fucking vindictive.

“Dean fucking Winchester.”

“That’s more like it, Y/N.” Dean built up his rhythm.

“Hunter.” You mewed.

“What else?”

“Mark Bearer?”

“And?” His teeth were clenched now, the words strained and menacing.

“Knight of Hell!” You screamed as he smacked your ass, pounding into you with constant shallow thrusts.

“Who am I?”

“The Righteous Man!”

Dean growled at the old title, the darkness of the Mark at war with his true nature: protector of the innocent. As his other hand connected with the opposite cheek you tensed, unsure of what else he wanted to hear.

“Michael’s Sword!” your voice was high and whiny as everything that was holding you upright began to weaken. He took both of your hips in his palms now, dragging out of you slowly before popping his pelvis back in, forcing you to press back into him or crash to the floor. He hummed in appreciation as he spread you wider from behind, his thumb pressed against your puckered hole, adding to the building pressure throughout your core.

“That’s mine, just like this pussy is mine. You hear that, Y/N? You’re mine.”

“Always have been,” you replied plainly without even registering what it all meant. “My Seal Breaker.”

Dean liked that one, because he raised one knee up and began to work you over again. You tossed your head back to watch him over your shoulder, bending nearly in half. He was breath-taking, his mouth open and panting, skin dewy and tense, uncountable scars and freckles randomly yet perfectly placed to outline this impossible man.

“Come on, baby, let me see you,” Dean coaxed, your eyes burst open, the inkwell pools staring back at him as he thrust harder into your luscious depths. “Hmmm, Y/N, you know how good you feel? So. Fucking. Sweet.”

“Better than her?” You half-whispered, half-begged.

“Every ti–.” Dean broke off on a moan, your body pulling him as deep as it could, and suddenly you crested again, muscles spasming as a howl escaped your mouth. Dean gave you only two beats before slamming back into you with wild abandon, reveling in the tightness and the added slick. The slap of his balls against your clit and his strong hips against your firm ass an erotic symphony.

“Fuck! I’m gonna cum so hard in that borrowed pussy, you want that?”

“God, yes, Dean. Fill this tiny little thing up,” You whined, tugging at your nipple as Dean began to add an extra roll of his hips between his thrusts. Damn, he knew just how to move, your channel quaked against him, another orgasm looming just out of reach. Dean slid one hand from your waist to palm the small bubble of one ass cheek, fingertips digging so deeply they’d leave marks in the morning. He brushed your g-spot over and over again, everything was vibrating, but it grew too loud. As soon as you felt the next wave approaching Dean froze, spilling inside your wanton cunt. Hot, thick and delicious Dean’s cum slipped from your lower lips as he eased his spent cock from your shaking walls.

He wouldn’t stop touching you, his hand on your hip as you slid down to curl on your side. He let his breathing regulate as he perched back on his heels, his well-built body on full display, the base of his multicolored pleasure trail glistened with both of your juices. His mouth a perfect pink “O” as he blew out a chilling stream against your lolling breasts. You groaned and rolled back up to all fours, biting his delicious thigh as you snaked up his body to steal another kiss. His arms encased you, pulling you in a painfully tight squeeze, the Mark of Cain, hotter than the rest of him, pressed against the lower curve of your ribcage.

He nestled his nose against yours with a satisfied hum, “Now, THAT, was not something I never thought I would do.” Gesturing to the sigils beneath your bodies.

You laughed, “Come on, not even when you were the demon?”

“Okay, maybe once, but Sam was in the room, no way he was getting a free show.” Dean winked down at you, which you eye-rolled away, letting the black slip away for effect. This was it: you felt the inevitable end approaching like a derailed train. You couldn’t look away or sidestep the onslaught, you just had to let it happen. If Dean would let go of the brakes, it would all be over soon.

“Do you know what you’re going to do?” You asked softly, letting your hand rest just below his tattoo, head against his collar bone.

He shook his head, “Not a clue, but I had to see you again, in whatever way I could.”

“Well, you could have come to me,” you teased, “I’m pretty sure Knights get all access passes.”

“I’d much rather come in or on you, sweetheart.” He grinned, what an ass. You shoved him away playfully, setting these carefree moments to memory. Even if you were both shit at coping, but professional at bullshit, at slapping on a mask for everyone else’s benefit. Well, Dean the later at least. You didn’t care much for anyone other than yourself, him and CC, if you were being honest. Which you weren’t.

“I don’t think I could handle if you went back, you deserve better than Crowley’s crap-dom.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I can’t die then.” He kissed you gently. “And won’t be going on another karaoke tour anytime soon.” There were so many things you wanted to say and none of them sounded like what he needed to hear. So, you sat there in silence, naked and blissed out upon the grimy floor of a forgotten warehouse in Dean’s arms.

***

He had fallen asleep, with his flannel as a pillow and his jeans thrown back on, unzipped and rumpled, he snored lazily at your side. It was some surrealist painting unraveled, he was raw and clammy with every spare patch of skin reaching across fictitious distance between you. He grumbled senselessly as you watched him, the vessel’s pleas growing with each passing minute. You kept your exploits from her, but she still knew she wasn’t safe there. The wrongness of losing perspective fostered the alarm churning inside your shared head. You savored every second you spent watching Dean dream, which was all the more precious because it was brief. Fleeting as a heartbeat, gone as quick as a wink. Nothing gold can stay.

Once the awe of it all wore down into undeserved contentment, she pushed harder and your willingness to ignore her thinned. You had work to do, a King to please and a vessel to free. You may have been a demon, but you weren’t cruel. CC had taught you how to be honest, even when it cost you everything. You wouldn’t look him in the eye and offer a true goodbye. You didn’t want to hurt him, and you couldn’t bear it if he wasn’t as pained as you.

Which is why you left like a thief in the night. The trap meticulously scratched through with the switchblade Dean always kept on him. Hastily, you left a note, prying a strip of vellum from the spell book he had used. Sam would have a bitchfit about it later, that you were certain. You couldn’t just disappear after experiencing an ecstasy of his choosing. Dean deserved more than you could offer, but you muddled through. With an air of melancholy that would make a Victorian widow proud, you staggered away on feet too swollen to be shoved back into her tiny boots.

*^*^*

When Dean woke up, everything hurt: his pride especially.

He hadn’t planned beyond summoning and facing her, but once he was inside her vessel with her; Dean had found what had been missing all those months. Dean saw his mirrored half: damned and deceitful, surely, but beautiful and blossoming all the same. He started to laugh when he fully came to, a deep belly laugh that brought tears to his eyes. Here he was, left half naked in a devil’s trap and somehow felt like he was the one doing the walk of shame. Either way, they both were. Figured.

He started gathering his spell materials as his phone went off.

“Dude, where are you?!”

“I had an errand, Sam. I’ll be home before noon.” Dean plucked a folded piece of paper from the middle of the old grimoire he had stolen from the Bunker’s collection.

“Everything alright?”

“I haven’t killed anybody, if that’s what you mean.” Dean read the note carefully before tucking it into his breast pocket, phone pinched between his shoulder and ear.

“That’s not what I— You know what, forget it. I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Not if I see you first,” Dean replied ad nauseum.

Sam barked a forced laugh. “Nice.”

“Yeah, well, you too.” The brothers both hung up, allowing Dean to finish clearing the basement of everything but the mangled sigils ringed in red. Before Dean started the Impala’s engine, he pulled out the thin scrap and reread the words she had left him.

_Dean-_

_I’m sorry to do this like this, but this one needs to get back to her life. I’m still on a job in Europe for the time being, but thanks for the one-night vacation. You were, as always, incredible. I hope you know you can call me; whichever way works best, anytime. Just, don’t do anything stupid. O.k.?_

_Always yours,_

_Me_

**May 1, 2015**

****

****

**After Angel Heart**

If Castiel had known Chloe Collins her entire life, perhaps he wouldn’t have been surprised by her request. Maybe, if he had known her without a demon’s influencing their entire history; she would have built up to this massive deceit with more finesse. Though angels were known best for being direct, unless one considered Lucifer and Gabriel, of course. Every way he regretted their tumultuous past; it still didn’t make answering her any easier.

“No.” Castiel glared at CC like she had suggested he trade the trench coat for Bermuda shorts.

“Castiel, please? This is really important and now that you’re fully you, you can show me how.” CC hated asking for favors, especially of the Angel, but this had gone too far.

“I don’t understand why you think I would do such a thing.”

“Because it is for their safety, Castiel. Sam and Dean are in danger with this hanging over us. We ALL are in danger from the truth getting out.” CC moved further from the backdoor of the Impala, drawing Cas out of earshot.

“Why?”

“Because, ‘Heaven’s eyes will never be far from you now and the minions of Hell will seek you out as a fortress against the light.’” She huffed in exasperation, eyes locking onto his impossible blues as the warning resonated between them.

“Whose words are those?”

“Mine, or my granddad’s, I don’t know. I had to make a choice to comeback from being comatose, Cas. I chose to live with the knowledge of my birth, of what and who I am. So now; I am a target. Dean doesn’t need another cross to bear, his plate is full. And Sam? Sam’s already walking on thin ice.” She stopped before she could expose every dirty secret she had learned from her months of hiding.

“Why are you only telling me this now?”

“Claire. You did the right thing, even if it hurt like a sonofabitch.” CC gave him an impressed eyebrow as he took what she said as the compliment she intended.

“You trust me?” Cas looked at his hands then back to CC, who’s own were tucked into her back pockets.

“Us Heaven rejects need to stick together, right?” Her smile pulled one out of him.

“If I agree to this, when would we even be able to do it?”

“As soon as possible. I need to get back at it, especially with the Steins still out there.”

“And you’re sure this is the only way to ensure Sam and Dean’s safety?”

“Fuck no. This is the only way to ensure Sam and Dean’s blood isn’t on my hands. Those assholes don’t do safe, you know that.”

Castiel nodded into a shrug, still playing at considering her offer.

She stepped forward, dropping a heavy hand onto his shoulder. “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t care about them, Cas.”

He noted her repeated use of his nickname from Dean and the physical contact that they had never shared before. “Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll erase the knowledge of your lineage from Sam and Dean’s memories.”

“And Charlie’s,” CC added.

“And Charlie’s, of course.”

“I can’t thank you enough.” CC reached her opposite hand out and shook Castiel’s hand, solidifying their agreement. Cas took her hand and her anxiety in his, sensing she needed the peace of mind as much as she needed the escape.


	23. Finale: Just One of the Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: CC deals with the consequences of her actions. Dean gets a voicemail and our reader finds that Winchesters rarely heed any advice. Some dialogue is taken from canon. This is it folks, the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading until now. xoxo Stu
> 
> Beta’d: @thoughtslikeaminefield and @dontshootmespence Ladies, I owe you more than I can express.
> 
> Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS

**Dark Dynasty**

**May 6, 2015**

**Sam’s Code Breaking Hideout**

“Sam and Dean are like my brothers. I love them.” Charlie stood before Rowena, soft and sure.

“I know. And that steadfast loyalty will be your undoing, my girl,” Rowena’s brief kindness faded into a marked taunt. Charlie squinted at the witch’s retreating form before looking to CC for shared annoyance, instead she found a gentle agreement on the hunter’s face. 

CC wasn’t one for cat fights and she certainly wasn’t going to add fuel to the fire Sam had started by shoving the hacker and the Queen Mother of Hell together, but Rowena had a point. Charlie was just more forgiving than most and CC had been in the life too long for that kind of optimism.

**May 7, 2015**

**Crowley’s Earthside Operation**

“–look, I get it. She’s unpleasant. She’s horrible. She has a messy workstation! What’s the dirt?! There must be something that I don’t know about her. Something I can hold over her as a bargaining chip. A demon lover?” Crowley was incensed with a hamster in a cage, which would have been concerning, if you didn’t understand the hamster as well as your boss. “You don’t need to paint a picture.”

You bit back a smile as the hamster spewed off Rowena’s questionable decisions like a grocery list.. Naturally, his birth came up along the litany. As his patience started to slip to microscopic proportions, you cleared your throat. “She once saved a little boy’s life.”

“You, not funny,” Crowley bellowed over his shoulder before he leaned down to glare at the hamster.

“Oh, come on, it is a little funny, but that’s only ‘cuz it’s true,” you purred, leaning your elbow on the opposite side of the cage’s lid, eyebrows raised in challenge. Crowley’s dark eyes danced over yours as the hamster that was once Olivette grew unnaturally quiet.

“What’s the punchline?” he demanded.

You sighed and mock whispered, “he’s still alive.”

“And?”

“I’ve met him. Tall, cherub curls and innocent as a Rockwell painting.” The hamster slowly crawled to your side of the forgotten wheel. Crowley listened as you explained the story you had pieced together, a tale of a friendly witch who’d been adopted by an impoverished farming family, lifetimes ago. Before you could give him more than the bare outline of Rowena’s startling past, he was bellowing for a minion and the taste of freedom started to ghost over your tongue.

**Blackbird Motel**

CC picked up the phone on the third ring; it was Cas in a panic. “Chloe, what are you doing?”

“Girls’ night out, grabbing some pay per view and thinking about throwing a motel party,” CC mocked as she checked that the door and the windows were secure.

“You know that the Stynes will stop at nothing to find the book.” CC rolled her eyes at the patronizing tone from the angel.

“Well, it’s a good thing we don’t have the book. Look, she needed a Rowena free space and I can’t blame her. Let the woman work so we can get this over with, once and for all,” CC closed her eyes as Charlie set up her computer, backpack full of notes left on the table untouched.

“It isn’t just Charlie I’m worried about,” Cas’s voice dropped in warning.

“We’ll be fine,” CC replied tersely. “I’ll call you when we know more,” she added to appease Charlie’s worried glances before hanging up. “Alright, I don’t think I bought us much time; work your magic.”

The rain muddied everything, CC’s alertness as well as any sound or scent outside. She hadn’t sat since they arrived, knowing that even a lumpy mattress would push her exhaustion away in the blink of an eye. Startlingly quick, Charlie found the cypher. Just as CC decided she would always bet on red, a gut dropping pound sounded at the door. She waved Charlie into the bathroom as she released her knife from her hip.

“I know you’re there, Miss Asimov,” a taunting drawl notched CC’s adrenaline to eleven. “You have it, I want it!”

CC’s mind raced, no time for witty replies now. She had been out of practice and somehow the Book of the Damned had juiced up this family into something she didn’t know how to kill. He banged again, voice genteel and grating. She inhaled and finally spoke, “it’s not here, Jethro. You can back off.”

“Well, that wasn’t too hard now was it?” And he kicked in the door. He was striking, refined and enraged, and missing half an arm. CC recoiled briefly before squaring up, knife at the ready, focus locked onto her target. “You’re not who I was expecting, darlin’. But either you’re gonna tell me where that book is, or I’m gonna take it out of your little redheaded friend.”

CC heard Charlie’s voice through the rain and the thin walls, but she doubted whichever Styne stood in front of her could. Help was on the way, all CC had to do was hold the guy off for twenty minutes and the cavalry could clean up. Except fights never lasted that long and the glare he was shooting, told her he thought he’d already won.

“You should leave, trust me.” CC walked toward him, he wasn’t overly large, a hair smaller than Dean. It was the unnatural way he moved, despite massive blood loss that had her questioning her every step.

“Not until I get what’s mine,” he bit the last word out with curling lips. He leaped at her, right hand swatting hers as he stepped into her space. Bloody stump of a forearm pushing into her throat. CC dropped lower, getting a nick to his side, slicing through waistcoat, shirt and flesh in practiced motions. He didn’t flinch; the only indication he felt the wound was how his nose flared as he looked into her eyes, disdain dripping from his every pore.

His hand locked around her wrist, squeezing, the tendons screaming until she felt her bones snap. She kneed his groin, using her center of gravity to push him back. Her knife useless in her misconnected hand, CC dropped it, leaving them to spar on more even terms. The broken in door swung on its hinges in the storm outside and just as CC spotted the shadow watching them a heart-stopping thwack and shattering of plastic sounded from the bathroom. In the second it took CC to realize they knew Charlie was still there, she froze. The blonde kicked her blade to his silent partner and before CC could get out more than a slight force of will against them, they had her caged in.

His mangled arm wrapped around her neck, unable to grant the pressure he wanted, so he tipped her face at the ceiling, broken wrist pulled across her chest like a frayed seatbelt. The other Styne, the one in the long woolen coat kept quiet, inspecting the intricate carvings on each side of her treasured weapon. The one restraining her let out a low whistle. 

“Oh, that is nice, a bit too classy for the likes of you, though. Now, you gonna sit politely and let us finish our business here, or are you gonna make my cousin put you down with your own blade, girl?”

CC was, had, and would never be the type to sit politely. She jammed her left elbow into her cage’s ribs. A guttural shriek came from her chest as she tried to bend low enough to get him off his feet in an augmented arm toss. But that only occupied one of her opponents; with little more than a raised eyebrow the cousin jabbed in and down, pulling her collar open like a macabre off the shoulder number. Everything burned, CC fell to her knees, the blonde man walked her down. The gold started to spark in her periphery, and she willed her body to stop. She couldn’t heal, not in front of these kind of men, if any part of them even remained human. Suddenly a hand was on her jaw and her neck popped. She fell, broken and trapped inside her own mind.

CC watched their tailored suit pants and polished shoes retreat to the bathroom. The sound of blood thrummed in her ears masking the rain and the demands, but not Charlie’s cries. Those she heard as tears of guilt burned through until she willed her eyes closed with the last wisp of energy she could muster. She didn’t want to black out, she needed to stay in control, but her body stopped listening.

She sat up in a lurch of panic, neck reattached despite herself. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, there he was, covered in Charlie’s blood.

“Chloe! Thank fuck, what happened?!” Sam crouched over her, eyes misting with grief and shame. She couldn’t answer him, her throat remained partially crushed, and it took nearly all her focus not to repair the damage– to give herself the pain, a shallow penance for Charlie’s life. Her eyes returned across the room, to Dean holding Charlie’s face in his hands like a parent in comfort, stroking the hair from her face. CC’s sob came out in a shrill wail, gasps as the reality and terror flooded her senses. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Sam’s voice held more than the moment, it was a blanket covering their entire operation. The deceit that was supposed to help, yet it only pushed Dean further away from them all.

**The Woods**

Dean felt CC’s brows raise as his words cut into Sam at the pyre, but he didn’t care. This was on her almost as much as it was on Sam. He was so sick of people he trusted letting him down. But this, this was wrong. It was Charlie and she was gone. Screw ‘em. Screw all of them because he couldn’t look them in the eye anymore; their betrayal was beyond gut souring.

“Yeah, you had a shot. Well, you’re all terrible shots, ‘cause Charlie’s dead. Nice shot.”

Sam looked up, trying to find his words, to combat the monotoned cruelty of Dean’s voice. “You think I am ever— going to forgive myself for that?!”

“You want to know what I think? I think it should be you up there, not her.” Dean barely even moved to deliver the last blow. CC cleared her throat, unable to listen any longer. 

“Don’t get me started on you! This thing with Cas and the book ends now. Shut it down before someone else gets hurt. You both understand me?”

“What about you?” Sam was the beaten puppy that could.

“Oh, I’m gonna find whoever did this. And I am going to rip apart everything and everyone that they ever loved, and then I am gonna tear out their heart.” He wasn’t even enthused about it, it came off like weekend plans, point by point.

“Is that you talking, or the Mark?” Sam needed to stop asking questions.

“Does it matter?” Dean left the challenge hanging in the air, walking away. Leaving those responsible to watch Charlie burn.

**The Prisoner**

Dean waited on Rudy to run the plates while he pointedly ignored a call from Cease. Setting his sights on Shreveport, he went back to listen to the voicemail she left him. Which started off with oddly timid ramblings before she got to her point.

“Maybe in another life, we could have had something close enough to normal. But not after everything.” Dean could hear her sniffling; her voice came back with a bite to it. 

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Charlie, about everything. I should have protected her, but I couldn’t even do that for you. And I fucking hate that, but it’s on me. No matter what you say or do Dean, it is on me. Not Sam.

But apologies are for regret, and I don’t regret trying to help you. If goodbyes are forever, well I aint ready for that sappy shit.”

Dean closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest, it didn’t even hurt anymore. Nothing could touch him; it was the ghost of loss that haunted him. The guilt of unfeeling. Somehow it all came back to rage. He huffed, tongue teasing his back teeth.

“So, I guess, take care of yourself because that’s what I gotta do now.” The line stayed open for a fathomless beat and then the electronic female voice was reading him his saving options. Dean slammed the end call button, leaving Chloe’s voice hanging in the ether between a saved and deleted message.

**Curtis’ Motor Court**

**Brother’s Keeper**

You sifted through the mess of Dean’s making, curious to see if he’d return. He’d certainly given the $39 a night room the rock star treatment. Without any current errands for Crowley, you decided to try your luck. Dean had gone radio silent and that only meant one of two things: he had succumbed to the curse on his arm, or he was done with you. Either way, you had to be sure. Sam found you in the end. He came in, gun raised and desperation bursting out with his big heaving chest.

“Hey there, Sammy,” you greeted glibly, perched beside the note and keyring. “He knew you’d show.”

“Who are you?!” Sam barked behind his intricate gun.

“Just looking for your brother, I’ve been hearing things and it sounds bad,” you sighed, letting your eyes fill in.

“What do you want with Dean?” Sam kept his gun in one hand and reached for his flask.

You raised your hands in surrender. “Same thing as you, want to make sure he’s still Dean. That he’s safe. That everyone is safe.”

“You’re?” Realization washed over him, causing you to hum against a giggle. The latest vessel’s voice bubbly despite your best efforts.

“Long time.” You stood holding out your hand, which you awkwardly tucked into the back pocket of her jeggings. “Heard you struck out on Crowley, too bad on that.”

“Yeah, well, he deserves it.” Sam stuck his tongue in the side of his cheek. “Have you seen him? Any idea where he’s going?”

“Not where, but what,” you sighed and looked up at Sam with warning. “He’s done, Sam. He told me so and after Charlie, I can only imagine—”

“Wait, what are you talking about? When did you see him? You know what, forget it. I’ll find him on my own,” Sam turned to go.

“If Crowley can’t crossroad deal something away and Cas can’t heal it off, who would Dean go to?”

“He hates praying,” Sam shook his head. He flinched, but instinctively caught the keys to the Impala you tossed to him.

“Somebody he knows, Sam. That’s he’s seen, face to face.”

He left without a goodbye or any gratitude, but you allowed Sam his head start.

**Juanita’s**

**Outskirts of Tulsa, Oklahoma**

You pulled up to the run-down restaurant just as Sam stormed inside, your demon senses telling you to stick to the perimeter. Death had already answered Dean’s call and the combination of voices left you enough to eavesdrop with. The hallway that lead into the main dining space was caked in dust. Dean’s voice bellowed, and it was as if you felt the hit his words landed on Sam. This wasn’t your place, this was a sacred conversation, of families and honor and things creatures like yourself couldn’t quite grasp anymore. It was also maddening.

When the punches started flying you stalked in, earning nothing more than a single finger shush from Death himself. Dean had the upper hand, but that didn’t make you feel any better about his state. Sam yielded, bloodied on his knees. Dean was dark and determined, flashes of a younger soul clouding your thoughts.

“You’ll never, ever hear me say, that you, the real you, is anything but good,” Sam pleaded from the floor. He spat and pulled himself taller. “But you’re right, before you hurt anyone else, you have to be stopped, at any cost.”

Your vessel’s blood ran cold. Sam’s tears somehow made their way to your eyes and he nodded to the eternal executioner. “Do it.”

Dean looked back to Death and he handed Dean his scythe. “Please, do me the honor.”

Dean took the weapon in awe, gauging the curve of the blade and the balance in the handle. He appeared transfixed and obedient. You tried to scream, but nothing came out. This wasn’t Dean’s destiny, no matter what Cain nor Angels decreed. He couldn’t kill Sam. Dean would not. He inhaled and faced Sam’s shaking form, towering over his brother who had been bigger than him for nearly twenty years. Everyone froze as Dean told him to close his eyes, something he probably said a thousand times before.

Sam prevailed, he pulled scraps from his jacket and set them at Dean’s feet. Begging him to find his way back, to himself and to family. Death knew better than to let a sibling’s pleas go on too long.

“It is for family you must proceed, Dean. To be what you are, to become what you’ve become is a stain on their memory. Do it or I will,” he wasn’t demanding, he was calm in a finite kind of way. His words crawled in your ears and taunted your every memory of Dean; it was as if Death could reimagine him into someone else just by sheer force of will. Truth and your unshaken faith in the man Dean was, at his core, beat back Death’s sway.

Dean paused, genuine anguish in his features as he let Sam make the final call. Even though Sam nodded for him to proceed, Dean asked one last thing from Sam, “forgive me.” 

He lifted the weapon and swung a wide arch, clear into Death himself. The puny man disintegrated before your eyes and suddenly you were in control of your vessel once more. You staggered into the room, legs wobbling from strain at fighting Death’s hold. 

You missed a moment the brother’s shared before blurting out, “What the fuck was that, Dean?!”

“I think I just killed Death,” Dean sounded on the edge of fear. “Who even are you, lady?” 

A dumbstruck Sam chuckled, “Dean, this is, uh, Chloe’s demon? I guess.”

“Y/N? Nice digs.” You smiled gently as Dean’s lip quirked.

“Wait, you know her actual name?” Sam sputtered as thunder rolled in, made from a wall of voices, out of nowhere.

“Does that sound right to you?” Dean worried just as the flash of lightning burst through the ceiling. You screeched as Dean groaned with the impact, the magic peeling the Mark of Cain from his skin like an instant laser treatment. Just as quickly as it arrived, it returned through the roof. You gaped at the haphazard miracle you had all witnessed.

You followed Dean cautiously, his hand reaching back to take yours, pulling the door shut behind you. Sam started talking through the disbelief. “This is good. Dean, this is good. The Mark is off your arm, nothing crazy happened, you get your baby back.”

Dean dropped your hand to take the keys from Sam. “Yeah, I’m sure everything’s perfectly fine.” Nothing came without a price. Dean headed to the car as sizzling jolts of pink lightning webbed across the sky. Pillars of bolts staggered like tendrils in patternless cascades. Then it stopped.

“What did Death call this?” Sam knew his victory speech had been a tad premature.

“The Darkness,” you and Dean said in unison.

Erupting from the points of impact came giant streaks of black smoke, denser and grittier than any demon. They shot through the sky like dancers hitting a mark, synchronized destruction. They merged in a nearby field and exploded into a boiling mound of matter, growing like an ancient horror show entity. Constantly expanding as you stood beside the pathless hunters.

“Get in the car! Let’s go, let’s go.” You didn’t even hesitate, Dean pointed, and you listened, sliding into the backseat as if you had never left CC, never been cast out, never been a demon. The sheer terror of the moment dwarfed the realization and you slammed your foot down to help Dean accelerate, a phantom driver. The Impala’s back tires spun through the mud and you gripped the middle of the front seat, desperate to make the escape. The rear wheel fell into a pothole and Dean threw his door wide, panicked.

“Dean!” Sam looked to the looming shadow as it grew closer, an unstoppable avalanche toppling everything it passed. In two breaths, it had overtaken the Impala. One moment you felt eyes on you and the next Dean had disappeared. Doors and windows all secure, but he was gone. The rolling black cloud jostled the car frame, knocking Sam out before you could ask him if he saw his brother. With every ounce of strength, you had you pushed the backdoor open, the endless tide of fog pushing you back, a tadpole against the current.

Losing your vessel was your only hope to find Dean in the Darkness, you left her outside the Impala and swam up. This wasn’t the soaring you found most freeing, this was a frenzy of sound and force thrashing against the streams of your being. You reached out with your senses, feeling for Dean, his heartbeat, his scent, his voice. Needling through the chaos desperate to find him. Then you heard his name on the wind and someone else’s tongue.

She stood with Dean in a clearing that was still drenched in shadow. She was dark lines and angles, elegant black dress hugging her effortlessly. He called out and you dropped down, trying to hold your molecules together in some discernible form. If he saw you, he didn’t reach out to touch you then. He was transfixed by her, by the Darkness personified. He stood challenging her, demanding why she hasn’t atomized him. Then she played him with the destiny card, endlessly bound by the mark on her clavicle. THE MARK, lock and key.

There was no thought, just white hot, blinding rage. You snaked between them, spreading out to hold her from him. He had come too far to be made into her mindless drone. You had to stop her, you had to save him. As she leaned forward, closing the distance between her and Dean, you screamed without vocal cords. Vibrating with ownership you tried to push her back. You felt her eye your gaseous state and suddenly everything ceased to be. 

There was no longer Darkness, nor Dean, nor you. It was just, Empty.

**Cedar Rapids, Iowa**

Dean pulled away from the pristine farmhouse, leaving Jenna and Amara in the safety of family. He had another long drive ahead of him to catch up with Sam. Now that Baby was passenger free; his mind got too loud. He thought that Y/N had been plucked out of the car with him; he couldn’t see her, but he had felt her until he didn’t. There was a gnawing in his stomach on the whim of her bailing on him and her vessel. Something the Darkness said without saying filled the void of doubt with an unwanted certainty.

“No matter where I am, who I am, or who is in the way. We will always help each other,” she promised him. Dean felt it was more warning than devotion, though he couldn’t help but agree. He may have lost the Mark, but he was far from free of it.


	24. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Dean Winchester, Chloe “CC” Collins: Hunter/ Nephilim Anomaly OFC, Castiel, Sam Winchester, Jack Kline, and others.

**October 13, 2017**

**North Cove, Washington**

Dean heard the old truck’s engine outside as he wrapped the body. He didn’t know why it felt right that she showed up for this, but funerals had slowly become their thing. He didn’t say hi, or smile, he just grunted at her to take Cas’s feet. She did, with ease. Jack watched CC with a naïve fascination and Dean stepped in his line of sight to shield her from the awkwardness. Sam asked Jack if he wanted to say anything. The kid didn’t get it, but Dean thought Sam delivered one hell of an explanation for a eulogy.

It was the biggest funeral Dean had ever faced, he was mourning for four, each grief bigger than the last. Dean said his part and lit the pyre, the sunset offsetting the orange licked timbers. CC spoke under her breath, words he didn’t understand, but felt all the same. He wasn’t ever happy to see her anymore, though he was grateful she came. Just as the final log turned into a charcoaled husk, Dean watched her turn to go.

“Hey, Cease?” Dean croaked; voice wrecked as much as his face.

“Whatcha need, Tweedle Dean?” CC replied, yanking open the creaking driver’s side door.

“Hold on a sec, I got something for you.” He gave her a small finger gun before jogging over to his trunk. After rustling around in the weapons, Dean found what he was looking for.

“Should I be worried?” CC teased, as the first signs of life sparked in his midnight deep eyes.

“I hope not.” Dean held out his hand and slapped a familiar weight into her palm. “When the Stynes tried to siege the Bunker, well, I found this in his pocket. Figured it was about time she went home.”

CC toyed with the blade, poking the tip with her finger before letting the handle dance through her fingers. She paused, mesmerized by the two-toned beauty of her cherished weapon.

Cautiously she looked up, pointedly. “You got him yourself?”

Dean gave CC a sad sigh. “I got ‘em all.”

She nodded, as the tears started to sting. “Thank you, for this and for fixing what I couldn’t.”

“Shhhhh, hey, come here,” Dean pulled her in, hand patting over the intricate braid down her back. “Thank you for coming.”

“He was—”

“I know,” Dean looked up to the ink black sky, letting CC pull herself back together before sending her off. She didn’t finish her sentence, but Castiel was her friend. One of the only contacts she kept from her time as a hunter. The Nephil boy had sensed her and she was torn from honoring the dead and fleeing for the greater good. Or from, depended on who was asking. She owed Dean and Cas and Charlie too much to not see it to ashes. The smoke hung like fog in her rearview mirror, fading behind the red ghosts of her taillights.

**July 10, 2018**

**Reno, NV**

Constance had a long day of clients, her head ached, and her grace needed a weekend off. As she was straightening the waiting area, she felt him outside. His aura was palpable, even through the warding sigils. She clutched the charm that never left her neck, how was this possible? It took three days, but Michael stood vigilant, tearing apart each of the nephil’s defenses. He entered through the front door, calm and polite.

When she saw him, she almost hurled. He wore a hunter’s face, but the angel behind it was not handsome and far less admirable.

“Ms. Collins, we haven’t met and as I don’t usually give this much time to abominations, such as yourself, I’d like to move past the pleasantries,” Michael looked her square in the eye as she threw everything she had at the alien archangel. Michael sighed, but found himself unable to get any closer to his target.

“You know, he didn’t believe it until I showed him with his own eyes. Dean, my vessel. He didn’t think, CC, that’s what she calls herself? Was part angel, surely, he would have known. Considering how well and how many times, he knew her.”

“You leave my daughter out of this, you sick bastard,” Constance snapped, her shield blazed with her fury.

“Daughter? Funny, that’s not the story I heard. Though I don’t doubt you formed her, you did not give birth to her. No, she is nothing more than a doll, willing and able to be played with by any passerby,” Michael’s eyes sparkled, a heavenly blue, his satisfaction tight on his gently curling lips.

He took a step closer, and then another.

“You see, you never existed in my world, because the angel that spawned you was killed before you fully formed,” his voice was soft, but the reality of his power never left her thoughts. She was too far out of practice to hold him off long one-on-one.

“So, the Contingency, as those traitors that knew of your, happy accident, called her. It was such an enigma to me. I just had to see it for myself. And that’s why I’m here, Constance.”

His hand was on her throat before she could reply, oxygen levels and grace depleting by the second. He listened to her choke and strain against his might, relishing the power and righteousness of ending such a creature. The blade sank into her abdomen with the practiced speed of millennia. Michael’s work brought him pride, but his task was only half completed. He found her phone on the desk before scrolling through her contacts. Something that easy was hardly rewarding, but he took note and moved on.

^*^*^


End file.
